Dreamers and Demons
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Tim Drake reflects on the events of "Identity Crisis", Superboy's got troubles of his own, Kid Flash is along for the ride (and gets more than he bargained for), and Luthor begins to mount a preliminary strike against the young proteges. Complete!
1. The Nightmare

The nightmare always begins the same.

Me. On my knees, in dad's blood. Trying desperately to take this thing from his chest—trying desperately to salvage what can't be salvaged. The last shred of Tim Drake, and I try to get rid of it.

_"Dad, I have to go."_

Batgirl—Barbara—back when she was Batgirl…she always used to say the most thrilling part of the job was swinging from roof to roof. Throwing out the de-cel line and watching it connect to the Gargoyle atop the old Davenport building off Englehart Drive. Diving off the roof, feeling the rush of wind in your face as you saw the ground rush up to meet you. Flexing your arms at just the right moment and pulling taught the line in the hope of swinging from one urban castle to the next. Like characters in one of Bart's video games.

It's a move that Nightwing and Bruce have long since perfected; it still gets me every time. The exhilaration of letting go. The strength I feel in grabbing the line and pulling it tight. And the landing's even better. I was always dramatic. Always landing perfectly in a crouch, on the balls of my feet, my ape draped eerily over me. Occasionally slipping into triple lockdown rooms undetected; waiting in the shadows like Bruce would to reveal myself.

I loved that rush. The thrill of flight, Kon used to call it. The exhilaration of letting go. I loved it. The element of free-flight and escapism. It was almost enough to make me just want to swing around the city from roof to roof every night. But I couldn't. Not when men like the Joker and women like Poison Ivy ar eout there breaking the law and doing wrong. Someone had to stop them.

Its why Bruce does what he does. It's why I made my case to become the next Robin. To fix the wrong. I wanted to help Batman. I wanted to **help **people. I wanted to make a **difference**...for the better.

It was for show, mainly. For some reason, back when I first told Bruce that he needed me—needed a Robin—to balance his life, I couldn't help feeling that I was doing it for my own reasons. I needed balance as much as Bruce Wayne did. We…**needed** each other.

"_I've got you Tim."_

The nightmare always begins the same. Me, on my knees, in dad's blood. Helpless.

"You should go. Definitely go," my father says to me as he stares affectionately at the circular R emblem on my uniform. There's a terrible sense of finality to it. I can see the look in his eyes; I didn't train to become Robin for nothing. I didn't learn a dozen martial arts from one of the world's greatest killers-Lady Shivafor nothing. I can read a person's emotions like a doctor reads an x-ray. I knew the look in my father's eye that night. It wasn't verbal. But it was a good-bye jsut the same. And an "I love you."

Too many loved ones had already died or been caught in the middle. Sue Dibny, Jean Loring. A death threat to Lois Lane. The disabling of the Justice League at the hands of Deathstroke and Dr. Light It was too much. Too many people had stumbled into the crosshairs. A few months after I became Robin, I lost my mother to a voodoo psychotic. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her. There was only one way of stopping it. Everyone knew it. We had to get out there and catch the responsible party. I didn't know it was going to cost so much.

Before I drop into the night, I stare into my father's eyes.

"I'm proud of you son."

Bruce tells me how it happened, based on his reconstruction of the crime scene. When some people show up asking access to the scene, Detective Kitch shows them the door.

Captain Boomerang—George Harkness—bursts through the doorway to my home. Hunched over slightly, his beady brown eyes staring menacingly around the living room—like a lion looking for a gazelle, an easy pick from the back of the herd; his fingers wrap themselves around a golden boomerang. He grins darkly, and sickly, baring his yellowed teeth.

In a flash, it happens. Dad lunges forward, squeezing off three shots—they all catch Boomerang square in the chest and send him to the ground. With his last breath, Boomerang releases a razor boomerang which goes straight through dad's chest, dissecting his heart and spilling out his blood through the exit wound by his shoulder blade.

I run. Upstairs. I tear off my uniform for reasons I couldn't begin to explain. _Yes, officer, I was asleep when I heard gunshots. I ran in to see my dad lying in a pool of his own **blood**. Dead at my feet. _Yeah, that's the excuse I would have fed Allen or Montoya or whoever they had on beat that night. Part of me wonders if Gordon would have understood.

I step over Boomerang's body, not even bothering with his fat, bloated corpse and start prying the boomerang out of dad's chest. It's not budging. Not an inch. My vision starts to blur as the tears swell.

"Get it out…" I manage weakly, my voice barely a crackle against the hushed silence of my house.

A warm hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see Bruce. He may have the cowl on, but I can still see his face. The face of an eight-year old boy. On his knees. In his parent's blood.

"I've got you."

The nightmare always begins the same. Me. Orphaned. Alone. Helpless…with Batman's shadow over me.


	2. I remember

This chapter revolves around the events of a subplot in the Teen Titans book, involving Superboy's genetic structure, and how Luthor plays into it. The chapter also contains semi-spoilers for some of DC's upcoming events, such as Villains United. It's all part of a larger grand scheme of mine to put this story into the larger coheseiveness of the DC Universe that's coming. Enjoy.

* * *

I remember. Something. 

I'm Superboy, for Pete's sake. Not exactly the **son** of the World' Greatest Hero. More or less a weird aggregate (note to self, thank Bart for explaining what that means) of Superman and the snake to his mongoose: Lex Luthor. Or mongoose to his snake. Whatever.

How the hell does that happen? How does DNA from the Man of Steel get spliced in with Luthor's slime? Surely it had to be a glitch in the system. Right?

I remember…something. Breaking out. It was cold. Antiseptic. There was light everywhere around me, and strange men in white coats shuffling around the room, clipboards tucked under their arms. They didn't pay any attention to me: the one guy in the room who really should have demanded attention. Wouldn't you be staring at a naked me in a giant glass tank? Alright, unfair question.

I was hooked up to machinery. Machinery all around me, it was so new and…frightening. I didn't know what to make of it. So I freaked. Went, well, a little haywire and broke myself out. I hurt a lot of people doing it, but I got free. That's what matters. I got free, and I became Superboy. Even though Miss Lane wasn't so hot on the name.

The dream always begins the same. Naked me (eat your heart out ladies), breaking out of a giant water trap (eat your heart out Houdini) and escaping what I later found out to be Cadmus Labs. The glass shatters around me, and the water solution floods out of the tank, swamping the unsuspecting scientists.

Breaking out. Rummaging through one of the ditches outside Metropolis.

In my dreams, I feel a cold mechanical hand on my shoulder.

"Son," the grimly tenor voice says to me. "Come with me."

I look up, and beyond the smoke I see Lex Luthor, towering a good ten feet over me.

"You are my progeny," he says to me, like some snooty Harvard professor. I wrestle free of his grip. And start running. "You will be the namesake of my empire." His voice runs after me. I stop and turn back to him.

"What are you talking about, Mr. Clean?" I ask, using humor—like I always do—to cover my ass. But I always know what he's talking about. He might be more intelligent than a room full of chimps—which doesn't say much for him anyway—but he's still predictable.

I've got 50 percent of Luthor's genetic code inside me. The other half is Superman's. You'd think I'd be scared by that. I almost am. How do I balance the world's greatest hero with the world's greatest villain? Good question.

I went to Tim for answers. Tim Drake is Robin, the Boy Wonder. Third in line, actually. He's smart—for his age. One of the few people I can talk to about stuff outside of work.

But this Luthor thing…it transcends work. He's part of my freaking life. He's inside me. And I'm genuinely afraid that someday…the "Luthor" part of me is gonna explode and take some people with it. I don't want that to happen. So I went to Tim for…advice.

"How did you deal with it?"

"Deal with what?" He plays it off, like he always does.

"You hang around with Batman. You've got darkness around you 24/7, and that's putting it lightly. How do you do it? How do you get through the day without being afraid you're going to end up just like him?"

"I don't need to be **afraid**, Conner," Tim says in a half-patronizing voice. "I've got something working for me other than fear."

"Oh yeah?"

"Hope."

"Riiight," I say, skeptical at best.

"Like you said, I didn't become Robin to become Batman. That's not the life I want for myself. There's a reason I have the mask."

"Uh…"

"There's a person underneath it, Conner. I'm not just the Boy Wonder. I can't be. Not all the time. I need to have a life outside of the mask. If that makes sense…"

"It does."

"And there's a person inside you too, Conner. You might have Luthor's DNA, but that doesn't mean your hair's about to fall out and you go building suits of armor. You're your own man, Luthor be damned."

I remember. Friends. Tim was always the one I could take anything to, and he could always bring anything to me. Or so I thought the unspoken agreement went.

I was in San Francisco when the call came in. Boomerang had broken into the Drake's house.

"This is Oracle with a priority response—"

Whenever a priority reponse was issued, it usually meant something major was going down. And the list of parties called upon to deal with the issue oddly enough included the Titans. I didn't know why Oracle had decided to broadcast the call, but I guess I didn't need to. The audio feed came into the main chamber. Bart and I were on monitor duty that night as Jack Drake tried to explain himself to Oracle.

"Someone sent me a gun," Mr. Drake's voice rattles.

"Stay where you are, Mr. Drake. I'm calling him right now."

My eyes narrow and I listen closely. Sitting next to me, Bart's eyes shift back and forth between me and the monitor screens, though none of them had eyes on the Drake house. He shifts anxiously in his seat and starts tapping his fingers impatiently on the deskhe's anxious to help, to feel useful. Over the line, we hear three shots. Bart jumps in his chair, horrified by what just happened. We're both too dumbfounded to do anything. Bart speaks up, barely a whisper.

"Is he…?"

I don't answer…because I honestly don't know.

We sit for a few minutes; motionless, helpless. Bart shakes off his shellshock and puts in calls to New York—Nightwing and the Outsiders—and Wally in Keystone. No one's answering.

A choked call comes over the transmitter. It's Tim. "Get it out…please."

In a (literal) flash, Bart is gone. I look blankly at the empty seat next to me. After Jack Drake dies, Tim shuts up, keeping his thoughts to himself.A month later, I finally approach him.

"Are you ready to talk about it?"

"Yeah…I think I finally am."

He doesn't talk about it at any kind of length. Like Batman, he keeps that kind of stuff…inside. Part of me wonders if Superman ever has to deal with crap like this.

Tim's lost both his parents, albeit in different times and places—less dangerous ones than the one we're in now. But I never had parents. I never had a father who worried over me and asked me—pleaded with me to stay home. My mind jumps from rock to rock—like it usually does.

Is that what this is about? This Luthor thing? I can't help but wonder. He might be the scum of the earth, but what if he just wants what's best for…his son?

Tim had his parents. Yeah, he lost them both. But I never had real parents. Just the Kents, or Clark himself. I never had real parents.

Is that what I am? Is that how Luthor sees me? An orphan to be taken in?

Batman, Superman, Tim. We're all orphans. Looking for guidance.

I tell myself that Tim would understand what I'm about to do.

* * *

Somewhere outside Gotham City:

"Are you…sure about this, Luthor?"

"Are you **questioning** me, Noah?"

"No, it's just—"

"You think I'm incapable of a war on two-fronts?"

"It's just—"

"I remind you that we don't need 90 percent of our higher mental faculties **or **the Wisdom of Solomon to achieve our goals. There are other methods at our disposal. Reserve your judgments."

"Yes," the Calculator backed down. "I'm sorry."

"Right," Luthor dismissed.

He removed a small remote control from his jacket, and pressed the single red button on its sleek exterior. A small projector in the middle of the table lit up; a single shaft of emerald light coalesced into a revolving 3-D model of Superboy.

"Ability falls second to ambition, Noah. Time is of the essence."

Luthor leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and stared thoughtfully at the image of Superboy before him

* * *

Continued...

* * *


	3. Honor Among Thieves

A (really, I suppose) needless chapter introducing Luthor and his associates, but don't let that hold you back. Enjoy:)

* * *

Noah Kuttler leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms wide. His heart rose in his chest and pressed against his ribcage as his pectorals stretched in a wide arc. It had been a long day, to put it lightly Most days were, when you were in this business: power brokering. Kuttler was the Calculatorinformation broker _par excellence_. Get up at five or six in the morning and power-up the computer terminals and video feeds. He hadat one time or anothervideo feeds on every superhero and erstwhile metahuman in the Lower Forty-Eight, with everyone coming to him for information. He'd been called Oracle without the morals. Meh. Criminals were criminals. Period. _But we're not all vultures. There is **some **honor among thieves. Some..._

His eyes shifted from Luthor, across the table to the penetrating green eyes of Talia Head. She was the exquisitely beautiful daughter of Ra's al Ghul, one of the Batman's oldest foes. Inadvertently, Ra's had raised the bar—if it could be called that—by kidnapping Dick Grayson, the original Robin and drawing the Dark Knight into a complicated cat-and-mouse game. In order for the plan to work, though, Ra's had to figure out who Batman was. It proved exceptionally simple. Simple enough for a man who had time on his side—via the mystical life-giving powers of the Lazarus Pits, Ra's could survive indefinitely as long as a supply of viable Pit remained intact—as well as the resources of his personal League of Assassins. The Demon, as his name was vernacularized, figured out on his own that Bruce Wayne and Batman were one and the same. When she assumed the CEO position at LexCorp International, Talia simply passed the information along to the proper authorities. Honorable? Maybe, but useful nonetheless.

"I remind you that it was by my design we allowed the knowledge of Superman's identity to be forwarded to Checkmate's European office."

"Then what do you have?" The voice of Black Adam—Teth-Adam, the first man to have the magic powers of Shazam bestowed on him—echoed across the table. Adam's strong tenor had the power to move worlds, but Luthor (and the rest of the group) remained unfettered.

"I don't need to defend myself, Adam. Already, seeds of doubt are cast in Superman's head." Luthor reached forward and pressed a single red button embedded in the table top. The 3-D image of Superboy dissolved; the particles swirled around in mid-air and then coalesced into images of Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. Luthor leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

"Friction between the so-called trinity is mounting. Dr. Psycho."

The diminutive man at the opposite end of the table from Luthor wore a simple pinstripe suit with a loosely bound red tie. His long hair hung loosely around his neck, and he held his head low, exposing his balding forehead, as if to show off his advanced cranium. He smiled curtly, and spoke.

"Wonder Woman's recent run-in with the Flash has only fueled the fire, Luthor. She is, as opposed to the Batman and Superman, aggressively proactive in her approach to the villains. Satellite recon from the Artic indicates her feelings on the Dr. Light issue, saying quote-unquote that monsters like him need to be dealt with, violently if necessary."

"And?"

"She is willing to **kill** in order to achieve security, and close to recruiting the Flash in the same endeavor. Superman and the Batman, conversely, are not. I estimate that this simple ideological rift can only lead to larger problems within the core of the Justice League. Factor in the issue of Batman's mindwipe some years ago, and the rift gets…bigger."

"Talia," Luthor said. "What **about** the mindwipe?"

"Batman's memories are coming back to him, albeit at a glacial rate."

"And Deathstroke?"

"His tenure impersonating Batman has ended effective 2200 hours this morning, having been found out by Roy Harper."

"Contact?"

"He's dropped off the radar," Calculator interjected. "He'll resurface. Always does."

"Understood. Next item," Luthor said, momentarily referring to a single sheet of paper before him. "Zoom."

"The Rogues are planning something major, with the first strike possibly occurring within the next few days. I was introduced to Zoom, in the wake of his skirmish with the Amazon."

"And—?"

A shrill signal blared from the phone next to Luthor. He glanced at the phone dolefully for a moment, then silently deferred to the Calculator, who acquiesced.

"This is Calculator."

"Cold here."

Luthor shot a bemused at Calculator and then looked to the villains seated around him for answers. They had none. "It's been a long time, Len. We were beginning to wonder if you got our message."

"Something big is about to go down. I need to know if we have your support."

"'We'?"

"The Rogues. Mercer wants to find his dad. We've got some leads, but…they're sketchy. Can't you help?"

"We're aware of your predicament, Len," Luthor interjected. "However, we're not going to get involved in your little war with the Trickster."

"Lex—"

"Take care of your **own **problems, Len. Then we'll talk."

"But—"

Luthor disconnected the line. "Next item." _Aren't we all thieves?_

"Superboy," Calculator said quietly.

"He is to be mine for the molding," Luthor said.

"Is this personal, Lex? Wounded pride?" Talia challenged lightly.

"I have been supplying **Robin **with the information about Superboy's DNA for some time now. Very soon, Superboy will realize his place."

Luthor stood and slid his hands into his pockets. He craned his neck back to observe the rotating 3-D figure of Superboy. "Noah...find Slade."

* * *

Continued...  



	4. Trust

The call comes into the main chamber, routed through a hundred different scramblers and decoders—all of them built with the intention of coding messages meant for the Tower only. After all...it's a dangerous world out there. Anyone could hack into the system and monitor our communications. Anyone.

My name is Bart Allen. I'm the Kid Flash. Yeah, what a name. I like it too.

"Bart, it's me."

"I hate it when you do that."

"You know who it is," Superboy groans impatiently.

"Yeah," I say with a chuckle. "I just like screwing with ya."

"Uh huh, yeah, well screw with this. We've got something big here."

"Where?"

"Gotham."

"I seem to remember," I say jokingly, taking the tone of a snooty professor, "something about you being afraid of the dark…and Martha Kent having to wash your sheets every night."

"Will you shut up!" Conner growls.

Alright, fun-time's over. Back to work. "What is it, Kon?"

"Something's…come up."

"What is it?"

"Put the Tower on lockdown, and meet me in Hub City in ten minutes."

Sigh. He knows I can beat him. "How about five?"

"Deal."

Lockdown's a standard procedure we take to close up shop when one person is on duty and has to leave. Quintuple-redundancy security systems based on Kryptonian, Thanagarian and Martian tech, plus some Atlantean systems that Tempest installed back when he was a member. To say nothing of the stuff that Tim got from Batman. That stuff itself is redundant: fingerprint scans coupled with optical scans and voice recognition. Sometimes I'm surprised I don't have to give a freakin' urine sample.

It takes me ten seconds to put the Tower on lockdown like Conner said, and another ten to make it to Denver. I slow down around Keystone City, and pick a nice open field a few miles from town to cross through—I don't want Wally or Jay to hear the sonic booms and come yelling at me. At this rate, I'll be in Hub City inside two minutes. It gives me time to think about stuff.

Raven, Gar, Cyborg and Wonder Girl are all on leave this weekend--doing their own things—leaving me, Tim and Kon to pick up the slack. It's not their weekend to be in 'Frisco, so I can't blame them. Lucky me, I'm the only one on duty. Me and Tim, but he's hardly there anyway. He splits his time between Gotham and Blüdhaven now and only makes about two weekends a month. If that. It's always nice having him around though. He's good conversation.

"_Is that, uh, a new cape?"_

_Tim looks at me, his brown eyes staring quizzically through that black mask. He doesn't know what to make of what I just asked him. "No."_

It's usually worth a try though. It's like talking to Superman, for Pete's sake. He makes you feel important and stupid at the same time. Such is Robin. Protégé of Batman, woo-er of women, wear-er of the esteemed red and black costume. Yeah, Tim's had quite the career, which is more than I can say. Tim's fought the bad guys that Wally's bad guys are scared of: Joker, Two-Face, and the rest. He even lived through that Legacy Virus thing a few years back. Yeah…Tim's a real trooper.

I slow down to 35 miles an hour o my way into town. It's about 8 o'clock, and for the most part Hub City seems pretty dead; everyone's either sleeping or looting some hapless business in secret. I finally slow to a walking gait a few hundred yards before the Courthouse. No use in surprising him. Superboy's sitting on the front steps, waiting for me.

"You lose," he says slyly.

"Let me **know**, the next time you want to race. What's up?"

Superboy holds back for a second; opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but hesitates. "I'm about to do something that…I'm not sure I have to do. But I **want** to do it."

"What?" I ask. Whatever's he aiming for, he's doing a good job of leading me on.

"I need to know that you'll trust me on this."

"If you tell me what it is, maybe I could. But you're not helping me out here by talking in riddles. You're not exactly Nigma, you know."

"You remember a few months ago, when Tim got all those emails about me? About how my DNA was spliced evenly from Superman and Luthor?"

"Yeah, but I thought someone was just yankin' your chain."

Conner looks away for a second.

"What's this about, Kon?" I break out the real-name on him. As real a name as he could have, anyway.

"Some things I need to get off my chest," he says patronizingly.

"Ooh-kay. Why don't you start with the S?"

"I'm leaving, Bart."

"What?"

"There are questions about me—about my life and how I came to be—that I want answered. This Luthor thing—"

"The DNA," I interrupt.

"Yes. I need to know what this is all about. I need to know what he wants with me."

Ol' Baldy slipped off the radar about six months ago—before Sue Dibny, before Deathstroke beat the hell out of the League. Wow. A lot of stuff has gone down in six months. Life…she flashes us by.

"If you're suggesting—"

"I'm going to find him, Bart."

"Luthor? It's not that easy, Kon. You can't just walk into the LexTower anymore. You're talking about going incognito in the underworld for at least a month in order to find him. You don't know what's down there.

"I don't have to."

"Kon—"

"Listen, this is between you and me, Bart. No one else. If anyone asks, tell them I'm in Metropolis with Clark for the week."

"I don't know if I can keep this legit for that long. How long before Vic or Tim realizes you're gone?"

"They don't have to," he says and stands.

"Don't do this, please. I'm asking you as your friend. You don't know what Luthor might have waiting for you."

"You can't stop me," he says in that better-than-you older brother voice. "I'm asking for you stay out of my way. I need to do this, Bart. Will you trust me?"

"What you're asking for…might be more than I can allow."

"What I'm asking for…goes beyond friendships and team alliances. This is something I need to figure out for me. So let me do it. Please."

Superboy lifts into the sky, and I don't stop him. I watch him go, a fast moving black streak against the sky heading east, and tap my ear—the inset communicator.

"This is Kid Flash. Anyone reading this?"

"This is Robin, what is it?"

"Superboy's heading your way. Be advised."

"Why is he coming here?"

"He's looking for Luthor," I say with some difficulty.

"Alright," Tim says. Even over the radio I can hear the concern in his voice. "Meet me at the Davenport Towers in ten minutes."

"You…want me along for the ride? Since when?"

"Since I realized leaving you alone in the Tower with a fully functional Playstation 2—when you **should** be on monitor duty—is more dangerous. See you in a few."

He disconnects, and I'm already on the road.

* * *

Continued

* * *


	5. To a Point

Calculator finds Deathstroke, and Bart gets serious (for a minute)

* * *

"Slade." Noah Kuttler's voice echoed through Slade Wilson's ears.

Wilson sighed, and opened his eyes slowly, rising from a deep concentration. "What is it?"

Wilson sat perched on the roof of the Vauxhall Opera House. From 30 stories up, the dark cityscape of the Gotham River docks, and further beyond, the choppy tides of the river itself lay before him. Things were more…palatable when you stared at them from above.

Cool air rushed in from the Atlantic . Coupled with the cloudless night, Wilson felt a slight chill—even with the suit and cowl covering his body. It was…relaxing. Except for Kuttler.

Built into his cowl, if it could be called such, Slade Wilson had an earpiece communicator. A relic of technology he'd purloined from a battle with Robin—the **first** one—some years ago. With some tinkering, he improved it **beyond** Batman's original design. That minor tinkiering had increased the earpiece's usefulness over a great range; allowed access not only to police bands, but also an easily accessible link to the Calculator's main lines as well as Oracle's by channeling the satellite signals through a wirelss router concealed in his belt.

Deathstroke--when he wanted to--had veritable tabs on the entire world.

"Where are you?"

"Around." Wilson gained a small satisfaction from speaking in monsyllables. Calculator was by anture an inquisitive creature: always asking questions and clawing at coattails.Like the poor bastard who hangs aorund the more popular kids in elementary school.

"And Harper?"

"I gave him a pass. **Some**body beat the shit out of him."

"That's a problem?"

"No. But if I can't have at least one of the originals what's the point?"

"Originals?"

"Grayson. Harper. West. The original Titans—the ones that matter anyway," Wilson said darkly.

"Alright, fine. How long will it take you to get back to Gotham ?"

"I'm already **here**," Deathstroke said heavily, impatience wearing on him.

"Uh...huh," Calculator said, caught off-guard. "Where are you? Exactly."

"The Vauxhall. It's a night with Chopin. You'd like it."

"I'm sure. But for right now, we need you. Luthor wants you to intercept Superboy at the airport."

"Right."

"How soon can you leave?"

"Stand by," Wilson said. He craned his neck up and stared into the darkening sky, and listened to the faint sounds of Chopin echoing through the roof. Therapeutic. To a point.

The black clouds rolled in from the Atlantic like a heavy sheet. Further out, in the waters of the Gotham River , a motionless sheet of rain draped over Blackgate Isle

"Deathstroke?" Calculator's voice pierced the silence. Chopin's music faded out.

"Twenty minutes."

Deathstroke tapped his ear lightly, and the communicator clicked off. In an instant he somersaulted over the parapet, into the darkness of the Gotham streets.

* * *

His name is—**was**—Eobard Thawne. The Reverse-Flash. A real scum.

No one knows quite how he did it, or why, but during the time when my grandfather, Barry Allen was The Flash, Thawne came to the 20th Century from his home in the 25th using his own technology and a Flash uniform resembling Barry's.Thawne wanted to duplicate Barry's speed, then travel back in time to meet him, only to find upon touring the Flash Museum…that he would become Barry's greatest enemy. More driven and inspired by it than anything else, Thawne set out to vindicate the evidence. He wanted to stake his claim in **this** century as the Fastest Man Alive.

Sometimes, I swear to God, I don't understand the attraction to whole "Reverse" angle. Get an original idea, Zolomon!

Anyway…

Taking on the identity of what he called The Reverse-Flash, he began to travel to the 20th century to battle the Flash. His knowledge of Grandpa Barry's identity enabled him to strike by killing his wife—my grandmother—Iris.

Eobard Thawne had been **watching** my grandpa for years, and Barry returned the favor. He'd had enough. So the next time the Reverse-Flash showed up, Barry was ready. On the day of Barry's wedding to Fiona Webb, Thawne returned from the future—as maniacal as ever—intent on killing Webb.Grandpa Barry saved Fiona, but in the process broke Thawne's neck. Professor Zoom was dead.

A lot of people say Grandpa Barry went over a line the day he killed Eobard Thawne. I wasn't there; I don't know what happened. I'm only running on what Wally's told me.

Wally told me the trial was everywhere. All the networks carried it. It was insane. Oddly enough, I guess, Grandpa Barry was acquitted. It doesn't make sense to me in some weird way.

By rights, Grandpa Barry should have gone to jail. Why didn't he? Eobard Thawne died, and Barry Allen killed him.

Time travelers are always hard to kill though. Really, how do you kill a man who can see it coming? Thawne **could** come back. Show up on Wally's doorstep, just looking for Linda. Hell, even Grandpa Barry isn't technically dead. I sorta think of it as…relocated.

But they always come back, these villains. With some kind of vendetta, looking to do wrong and hurt people.

Why they do it….I don't know. Not really sure I **wanna** know.

But it's our job to stop them. And I'll do what I have to. I'm not gonna be pushed around anymore.

At any rate...I reach Gotham in just under three minutes. By the time I get to the Davenport Towers , Robin is already waiting for me. He's fast becoming like Batman I suspect. Creeping in and out of any situation like the freakin' Boogeyman. Hell, maybe he already is Batman. He's lost his dad **and** his girlfriend—both inside a four month period of time.

What do you think that does to a person?

I admit I've never had to deal with…so much loss. Biggest life-changer for me was leaving my own time—like Thawne—with my grandmother Iris. I came to 20th century Keystone City to "learn" how to use my super-speed. Oh man…what a time to be alive (yikes).

I'm Bart Allen. Kid Flash. Yeah buddy, glad acceptance of the Flash mantle. It's…what I want to do. Sometimes I wonder about Conner and Tim. What do they want to do? Why does Tim dress up like a moving target every night and put himself in harm's way.

I do the same. Hell, we all do. It's what we do, I guess.

I gather up some bank speed on my way across the Vincefinkel Bridge , to the point that I blaze through town and don't even throw up dust. It's a trick I've learned from Jay and have since come to perfect ('cause I rock).

The Davenport Towers come up fast, rising into the black of night like glass cathedrals. In the wake of the No Man's Land, Lex Luthor—back when he was still reputable, if ever—had a major hand to play in Gotham 's rebuilding. He fused the old gothic architecture with the futuristic. The critics jumped on as usual, loving Luthor and whatever scraps he threw 'em.

Typical.

I speed up, getting enough speed to run up the side of the building. It's a neat trick. Spelunking without the hooks, trying to work **against** friction.

"You're late," Robin says as I somersault over a parapet and land in a crouch a few feet in front of him.

"And you're being a box of chocolates."

"Can it. We've got a situation."

"Alright, Corporal, where shall we begin? Dust for prints? Cavity Search?" Humor. She is my mistress.

"No," Tim says bluntly. Something's up his ass. "I can't find him. I know he's in town; you said so yourself. I just can't get a lock on him. He's either turned off his tracer or it's gotten lost. Probably in transit."

"Tracer?" I ask, genuinely surprised.

Tim looks away, to the sky and a cold front rolling in off the Atlantic . "I have tracer signals on all of the Titans." He's not ashamed of it. Part of me reasons that he shouldn't be.

"Not exactly a homing device. A microwave frequency designed within the circuitry of your earpieces. A little device I whipped up on a slow night a few months ago."

"And you're tracking Superboy's?"

"Yes, but with some difficulty. He moves considerably slower than you do—"

"Fastest Y-chromosome alive," I say proudly, straightening up, and puffing my chest out like a military man at attention. Except I'm not getting assaulted with words by Lee Ermey. Heh.

"Right," Tim says dismissively. "But if he's in the air, the satellite would have trouble triangulating a position."

He reaches around to the back part of his belt and pulls out a small cylindrical…thingHe holds it in his right hand and punches in numbers on the small keyboard. The video screen lights up a warm green color and Tim watches a single red dot phase in and out of visibility for a few seconds. It courses its way around in a broad ellipse. It's like some kind of new age etch-a-sketch. Neato.

Tim starts muttering, recriminating himself for not being able to find Superboy: "Where are you, Conner?"

"What about Luthor. Do you know where he is?" I ask, half patronizing. Of course Tim knows where Luthor is. He hangs out with Batman. He **always** knows. Tim puts away his Conner-monitor, and stares coldly at me. It's like it's his thing. Superman does the flying thing. Tim…stares at people. A boy with a hobby.

"No," He says, almost disappointed.

"Alright," I say, and pause for a moment. "Uh…"

"What?"

"The microwave frequencies or whatever you called 'em. How long have you had them on us?"

"Bart—" He says, probably expecting me to go crazy over being watched. Sure, I am. But I understand why he's doing it.

"I'm just asking," I say, throwing up my hands defensively. "I'm not…against 'em. I understand why we have them"

"I appreciate that," Tim says calmly, still focusing on finding Conner. "And besides, if one of you ever got in trouble, I'd have no way of finding you. Not without the tracers."

"Yeah," I say with a little grin. Nice to know someone cares. "Have you found him?"

"Jesus," Tim mutters to himself.

"What is it?"

"He's at the airport. A few miles north of here. Go."

"What about you?"

"I've got my own ride," Tim says as he heads to the edge of the roof. Next thing I know he takes a Greg Louganis off the parapet…out of my site.

"Funny," I say, and jet down the side of the building. Constant acceleration plus my own super-speed kicking in get me up to about 80 miles an hour. Just enough to carry me out of the city, head towards the airport, and leave little damage behind (heh).

* * *

Continued... 


	6. Feedback

Archie Goodwin International Airport sat on a high plateau, near the northwestern bend if the Gotham River. It was the eastern seaboard's third largest Hub, behind JFK and Metropolis. A plane landed and took off just about every minute. This put Goodwin's productivity slightly ahead of O'Hare.

Airport as successful as this one...what the hell's it doing in Gotham?

It takes me ten minutes to get from the Davenport Towers to a hangar half a mile away from airport grounds. Bruce had the hangar built as one of his mobile Batcaves. After Bane broke into the main cave and beat Batman within an inch of his life, we installed better security measures. Stronger ones, that kept out the people we didn't want in.

The satellite caves are more utilitarian. Fallout shelter thinking. Bruce built them as fall-backs, had them stocked with military-surplus rations and gear (not that we'd need any of that, but it was reassuring to have back-up) in the event that the main cave, and by extension Wayne Manor, were compromised.

Had I thought about it before leaving, I would have **told** Bart about the ancillary cave and to **wait** for me. But...I didn't.

Bruce would have.

Bruce thinks of **every**thing.

Even through the suit and the helmet, I can feel the cool night wind slamming into my face—my entire body—while the Redbird cycle buzzes across Mooney Bridge. Goodwin International shines dimly in the distance. Chances being what they are, Bart's probably already there. Waiting at the front gate. In full costume. Conspicuous as hell. A walking freaking target.

Not a smart thing to do. We could've orchestrated an attack plan from the satellite cave. Nope. Bart probably strolled right in, signed a few autographs, and found something pointless to throw his attention on.

So I bite the bullet. Shift the bike down into first gear and roll right up to the baggage drop. A portly and disgruntled-looking meter maid stands in front of the revolving doors. I spot, her let out a sigh, and park the bike.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter to myself, and throw down the kickstand. The meter maid spots me instantly and starts walking towards the bike. She's unusually awestruck. Considering that incident a few months back with Darla's shooting, she shouldn't. Hell, half the damn country saw it.

"Hey, you can't park there," the meter maid says in that motherly tone admonishing me for obvious wrongdoing.

"Tow it," I say. It's interesting enough to me just to say things **as** Robin and gauge reactions. Most people don't know how to react when they see a kid wearing a red and green suit. Can't blame 'em though. They're sued to seeing people like Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor in the public eye. Not Batman and Robin. We're the CSI. The nonentities. It's…better that way.

I push through the revolving doors, and quickly spot Bart. He's leaning against a Starbucks kiosk a few yards away, with a Styrofoam cup in one hand and the other hand sitting comfortably on his waist. He's trying—and failing—to sweet-talk the blonde waiting for her mocha. The situations reeks. First off, Bart was never much of a womanizer. He's been spending too much time with Conner. Secondly, and perhaps to my advantage, she's not interested.

No good way to do this. So I just start walking. Not bothering to make eye contact, I grab his free arm and haul him away from the blonde.

"Hey!" Bart protests as his coffee falls from his hand. "I paid for that!"

The blonde flashes us both a quick smile and walks away with her coffee.

"I think you can make back $2.50. Have we been through this?" I ask, rhetorically, whisking Bart into a nearby men's room. "Don't. Go. Public. Not unless you **have** to."

"I was on stakeout," he says innocently. "I swear, she came to **me**."

"And you ran with it."

"Sure. Wouldn't you?"

"Not when we have a job to do."

"Alright fair enough," Bart says dismissively. "What kept you?"

"65 miles per hour," I say. I take a knee and check the open spaces under the stall dividers for any potential "ears" in the restroom. Similarly, no one at the urinals. It's a little strange that we're all alone. Third largest hub and no one's using the facilities? A little strange. "We can't **all** travel supersonic."

"Sorry," Bart says humbly, crossing his arms and leaning up against the sink basin. "I forgot about the public thing."

"It's alright," I say. I reach around to the backside of my belt and pull out the video monitor I used to track Conner at the Davenport Towers.

"You found him yet?"

"Well, according to this he's down at the LexAir terminal."

"Great, let's go—"

"Just a second there, Professor. I'm more concerned with keeping a low profile."

"Sure," he says sarcastically. "Not like we didn't already attract enough attention to ourselves. What do you wanna do?"

I look up, stretching my arms. My heart rises in my chest and my bones ache. It's been a long time since I've actually stretched. My whole body is sore. From flying around as Robin, and outright lack of sleep. I don't sleep well anymore. Not since…Dad.

"You okay?" Bart asks plainly.

"Yeah," I say with a yawn. "I'm fine."

The ceiling. That's it. "Bart, how much do you weigh?"

"About a hundred and eight, why?"

"Did you ever play piggy-back or leapfrog as a kid?"

"No, Tim," he says acerbically. "I spent my childhood in Virtual Reality. Any leapfrogging I may have done was strictly mental."

"Fair enough. Jump on," I encourage as I take a knee.

Bart sneers at the idea at first, but eventually sighs and gives it a what-the-hell. He situates himself clumsily around my neck, inadvertently knocking the wind out of me while looking for purchase.

He's not exactly distributing his weight that well either.

"You weigh a little **more** than a hundred and eight," I say hatefully. "What's the deal?"

"I just wanted to impress you," Bart says pseudo-shamefully, and slides back the A/C grating above us. A moment later he's in the ductwork and extending a hand down to help me up.

* * *

"God, it smells like my **gym locker** up here," Bart whines. 

"I'm almost afraid to ask what you keep in there. Maybe if you learned how to do laundry—"

"We can't all be **boy wonders**, can we?"

"You'll have that," I say. "Stay nimble."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Bart reassures himself. He uses humor as a defense mechanism. It allows him to step back from any situation and remove himself from it. Admirable, if he didn't do it so often. "Are we there yet?"

"You're like a child," I rebuke impatiently.

"No, I'm just…"

"What?"

"Nothing," Bart says distantly. "Nothing at all."

Finally, the tracer monitor gives me some feedback. "Alright. Screen says we should be right above the terminal."

"Great. So what do we do?"

Way to throw me for a loop, Bart. I think about it for a moment. And I'm suddenly glad Bart can't see behind the star-lite lenses; he can't see the concern in my eyes.

"Ah screw being quiet," I say grudgingly, and pull my bo-staff from its compartment on the backside of my belt. "Go ahead."

Bart crawls backward a foot or two, enough to expose the air vent leading to the main concourse, reaches a leg forward, and kicks the air vent through, down to the ground. He follows suit, landing in a crouch.

"Contact."

The voice comes from nowhere, and Bart's head snaps around, searching wildly for the source.

"What?"

"Kid Flash. Back for seconds."

The star-lite lenses embedded in my mask have magnifiers; a little bonus Bruce slipped in before the No Man's Land. They focus in on the floor, and a small circular disc—almost like an earbud headphone—rolling towards Bart. It slows to a stop a few inches in front of his foot.

Conner's earpiece communicator.

"Deathstroke," Bart says calmly.

"Good. Turn around. You deserve a fair fight."

Bart turns slowly, shakily. For the World's Fastest Boy, he's unnaturally frozen. He's afraid of getting shot again.

From my vantage point in the ductwork, I can only see Deathstroke from the neck down. He's carrying a broadsword in one hand, and a shotgun in the other. Bart's frozen with fear. He could separate Deathstroke's **atoms** if he got going fast enough. But that's not going to happen.

So it's up to me.

I land in a kneel, my bo-staff clutched tightly in my hands. Deathstroke isn't alone.

Zoom is standing next to Slade. And this is about as bad as it gets.

"IhelpedTheFlashbeeeeabetterhero," Zoom says in whispered anger. He sounds like a record skipping.

"MaaaaaybeIcanteachyoutoooRobinBoyyyyWonder."

* * *

Continued...

* * *

Author's Note: The folks at DC Comics actually came up with the idea of Goodwin Airport (maps used for the "Batman No Land's" event show the hub situated outside the city limits, and a few miles from Wayne Manor. Archie Goodwin was a writer/editor for DC and Marvel before his death in 1998, and perhaps most widely known for his adaptations of the _Star Wars_ movie franchise to the comics. 


	7. Guidance

Conner gets serious for a moment...

* * *

My knees hurt. They always do. I tell myself it's a growth spurt, even though that's not possible. I've been standing for too damn long. Waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

Luthor.

He looks unnaturally concerned…for the scum of the earth.

That said, he still dresses to the nines. He wears dark, primary colors; a dark black suit with matching trousers and shiny Italian boots. Beneath the broad shoulders and dark jacket, he wears a maroon Oxford with a black tie. A small diamond-studded tie-tack presses the tie neatly into his shirt. He's sitting in a low-rise chair. Like a red ottoman with high arms and a towering back support. The depth allows him to slouch a bit. He steeples his fingers, and stares at me coldly…like a bug in some tank.. Like he's just about the strongest man on the planet.

Sure, he isn't. But its fun to dream isn't it?

I came to him. Not the other way around. He didn't kidnap me or anything.

No. I came to him. And it wasn't hard, either. Not when you've got the powers of Superman, the eerie patience of Luthor himself, and the stamina of a running back. A few miles outside of Gotham City, there's a WayneTech warehouse sitting empty off a gravel road. It's what's beneath it that matters. Luthor's new lair. I found him on a simple flyover of the city. All it took was focusing in my hearing to the frequency of his voice. A low tenor like his stands out like a sore thumb.

By the time I got through the defenses, he was ready for me. He saw me coming. I don't know how, but he knew.

I need answers, and right now he's not giving me any. I might have to start playing dirty. I can do that.

"Why am I here?"

"You can have a seat if you wish," he says, disregarding my question. "You needn't be so rigid."

He's got a point. My posture is straight and stiff. My back arches outward, and I feel the muscles pulling tight. But I'm not letting my guard down. God knows what he's got waiting for me, and after that stunt at the White House a few months back, I'm not taking any chances. So I stand, arms clenched tightly at my side.

"I prefer to stand," I say pointedly.

"Fair enough."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Quite so." Luthor thinks he's playing some damn game with me. That just because I came to him, he thinks he can walk all over me. We'll see. "What can I do for you, Conner?"

He lowers his steepled fingers bringing his rams to rest in his lap. I see his face now. He looks like the overpriced, overperfected end product of a line of kings. It's a pretty good trick, but I can see right through him. Because everyone **knows** Lex Luthor came from the gutters.

It's…admirable in some strange way. Through sheer willpower and a little malice, Luthor's made himself the best he can be. He built his own company from dirt, and got elected to the highest office in the land through halfway honest means. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say he actually convinced America.

He's tall; even when seated. But he doesn't need to elevate himself above anyone. He demands attention—excellence—just by being someplace. He has credentials. A resume as long as any river, and an intelligence to match. Fierce, raging…and blue. Alright maybe not blue. But he's imposing. In every manner of the word.

His high-drawn eyebrows angle down sharply and make him look as if he's permanently pissed at the world. Though he's probably very pleased to see me.

"May I call you Conner?"

"Yes," I say hesitantly. "Conner's fine."

"Good. Then what is it I can do for you?"

He's nice. Too nice. Creepy. "I have…some questions."

"Cadmus," he says expectantly. He's obviously been waiting for this. Planning a long time in advance for the day I would finally show up and ask him what the hell was going on. Why he sent those emails to Tim. What does he want from me?

"Why am I here?"

"The question is vague, Conner. You might try expounding upon it."

"What was the point? What did any of you have to gain by cloning Superman?"

Luthor sighs noticeably and straightens himself in his seat. He's getting ready for some serious explanation.

"The exact nature of Project: Superboy is still something of a mystery," Luthor says. I can sense the disappointment in his voice. He's a man who likes results. When he doesn't get them, heads roll. I've heard enough ghost stories from Clark to know it. Luthor goes on. He's not making eye contact with me either. It's a little strange.

"What **is** known, however, is that scientists were incapable of successfully cloning Superman. After several failed experiments, they grafted what they could of Superman's DNA onto human DNA—"

"Yours," I say quietly. "You were a willing donor?"

"Yes. And that process stabilized the alien genes. Thus…**you** were born, fifty percent Kryptonian and fifty percent human."

Silence. My arms hurt from me holding them together in tightened fists. I'm still not convinced he's not hiding a death ray behind that chair. Even though my x-ray vision shows the room is clean. I can hear whispers. My hearing picks them up from the next room over, but I can't make out specifics. Its two men—I can tell that much. And a woman. Weird.

"Does that answer your question, Conner?"

My mind shifts back to Luthor. "Partly."

Luthor leans back in his chair and raises an eyebrow, as if to say 'what now, Teen of Steel?'

"What did you want from it?"

"What do you **think**?" Luthor patronizes. He seems…offended that I would ask such a stupid question. Part of me laughs silently at the idea of angering Luthor. It's one of those details of life that make it more enjoyable.

"You wanted a Superman of your own," I say slowly, believing I've just had an apostrophe. Epiphany? Bart would know.

"You were not a de facto duplicate of Superman," Luthor says plainly. "Your abilities differ. Cadmus knew this."

"What else does Cadmus know about me?"

"Nothing," Luthor says idly. "Cadmus was **destroyed**, along with all pertinent information regarding you and any other projects they were working on."

"So…"

"No, Conner. Your life is not lost forever. I managed to come into possession of some particularly important articles regarding you."

"What about me?"

"How **important **you are."

"Really?" I'm getting agitated. I tell myself Luthor's riddles are doing it.

"Yes. Very much so."

"Really?"

Silence. A corner of Luthor's mouth creeps upwards into a half-smile. He's amused by this. He thinks it's some kind of game. In a flash, I shoot forward, and before Luthor knows it, I've got a hand clasped firmly around his neck. Pressing him into his chair, I clench my teeth.

"Tell me," I say forcefully.

Luthor's eyes narrow. I can feel his pulse weakening beneath my hand.

"**Tell me _now_!**"

"Alright," he chokes. I let go. He straightens in his chair, rearranges his tie, and quietly clears his throat. "What is it you want to know?"

"Were you always after me? How long did you plan on hiding this from me?"

"Hiding it? As I recall, **I** was the one who sent Tim Drake the emails. And might I add, he didn't exactly take it much better than you are."

"How could you know Tim Drake?"

"I have my ways, Conner. Any more questions?"

"What are you getting out of this? You want to use me against Superman, is that it?"

"I don't want to **use** you for anything, Conner," he says.

He's not scared of me. Interesting that he would be anyway. I could rip him apart. Not that I would, but he doesn't have to know that.

"I want to **help** you," he finishes calmly.

My mind wanders back to…Tim. Tim always has the ability to put things in perspective. He's saved me more times than I care to count. _You're your own man_, he said.

Yeah. My own man. Conner Kent, featuring Superman and Lex Luthor.

Luthor's eyebrows angle sharply and he narrows his gaze. "I can help you find who you really are. I can **guide** you."

For the first time in a long time, I'm speechless. Part of me wonders how Tim gets away with being so freakin' silent.

"I can help you, Conner. But I need to know if you can help **me**."

* * *

_Continued..._


	8. Almost

When the Titans were first formed, rumors spread pretty rapidly about the bunch of kids who dressed up in cheap Halloween costumes and ran around beating up the bad guys. A lot of people underestimated the team. That was their first mistake. They'd goad us into conflict, hoping that they'd beat us, relying on their obviously superior faculties to beat up a bunch of wild teenagers.

We're no kids.

Slade Wilson knows this. But it's not going to—and never has—stopped him from interfering in our lives.

Part of me wishes he would just drop his sword and walk away now.

"Drake."

I'm not surprised that he knows who I am. Hell, who doesn't? "Sorry to hear about your old man."

"You're breakin' my heart," I say tightly. I spring forward, throwing the bo-staff in front of me as guard. As expected, Deathstroke throws his own sword in front of the bo-staff. He slices through the bo-staff like it's nothing.

Narrowly missing the razor-edge of his sword, I duck, sliding between Slade's legs and slamming one half of my bo-staff up into his groin. He doesn't feel it. Before I can get to my feet, he's landed a size 12 against my head and forced me to the floor. He keeps his boot there, increasing the pressure. He wants to split my bones and let my brains spill out on the floor.

But he's left his leg exposed—particularly the inside of his thigh. Sensitive skin, not worn or exposed very often, if at all. Best of all…breakable. Unseen, I pull a batarang out of my belt, hold it under my hand, and wait.

He puts on the heat, applies more pressure.

Moving in a blur, I jam the razor-pointed end of the batarang into Slade's thigh—just above the knee joint, between the sartorius and vastus medialis. He might be wearing a bulletproof suit, and carry more firepower than US soldiers do...but he's still vulnerable. His suit is meant to protect against long-range attacks from guns and fire. A Batarang is neither.

He growls in momentary pain, and it's just enough time to let up on me. He steps back. I hobble to one knee, pull three Batarangs out of my pocket and clutch them tightly between my fingers. I don't wait.

I rush him, jamming a Batarang-forked fist into his gut. I've pierced the skin, probably some internal organs, but it doesn't matter in the long-run; it'll regenerate. The damage allows me a few seconds to think ahead. He grimaces briefly as air rushes from his lungs, but still manages to parry with a roundhouse kick. It catches me in the jaw. I stumble back a bit, catch myself, and wipe the blood from my mouth. The Batarangs drop out of my hand.

Deathstroke pulls the Batarang from his thigh in one quick motion, barely gasping. He regards it in his hand for a moment, before crushing it into shards.

"Good," he says hoarsely. "You're just about as good as Grayson. But…" He pauses for a second and pulls off his mask. "Angrier," he says gruffly.

His features are…haunting. A permanent scowl. Blood leaks from his nose and stains into his silver goatee. His remaining eye—the left one—stares hatefully at me. He's already thinking 9 steps ahead of me.

But I'm exactly with him. Training with Batman has taught me **that** much.

Slade Wilson lived through Vietnam, lived through government-backed "super soldier" experiments that made him into an immortal killer. He even lived through having to kill his own son. I've seen the same. Almost. I've had to live through a virus that almost killed me, an outing on Apokolips that nearly killed me and everyone else from Young Justice…and losing **both** my parents to psychotics.

Psychotics like Slade.

Months ago, a costumed freak known as Captain Boomerang killed my father in cold blood. Period. He had known ties to the Calculator. Calculator has ties to Deathstroke. They're all part of a network—a Society…

They're getting smart. **Smarter**.

And we just **let** it happen. We overlooked the little ones for too long. It's always the little ones that come back from the dead. Always the little ones who break into your house with a pocketful of boomerangs. Always the little ones that come after your family…your children…your father…

Always.

Deathstroke isn't small by any means. But that won't stop me.

Deathstroke throws the mask aside, pulls his sword, and rushes me. I sidestep it, and catch him with a right hook. And then a left. My leg blurs through the air—a side thrust kick aimed directly for Slade's face—and connects. The momentum throws his head away from me. Blood shoots from his mouth and he falls back; the sword drops from his hand.

For a moment in time, the ultimate tactician…is nothing more than a broekn geriatric.

I'm almost surprised at how **easily** he went down. Almost.

I approach him slowly. His one good eye stares at me and silently curses me. Staring back at me, I see…The Joker. Two-Face. Every villain whose ever fought me and claimed some kind of victory. Every one of them who though they could beat up a bunch of kids.

Captain Boomerang's dead brown eyes staring at me…laughing like some damn ghost.

I drop to my knees, straddling Slade. And months—**years'**—worth of rage courses through my fists.

* * *

A product of a freak accident, Zoom operates outside the Speed Force that gives Wally and me our powers. He exists almost on another timeline. Like he's part of a faster moving world. People not possessing his…peculiarities…see nothing more of Zoom than a blur. A cipher. 

Zoom is a ghost, for all intensive purposes. He might not have Wally's speed, but he's subject to the laws of Physics just the same.

When he's standing still, Zoom's still a blur. Get him moving, and he becomes invisible—impossible for the human eye to track. Even I can't see him, and my synapses are firing beyond what they should be, given my powers.

_"ImpulseFastestboyalive."_

A yellow-clad arm locks itself around my throat. Zoom's stopped moving. He's got me an Undertaker-style chokehold, held a few feet off the ground. I'm staring down his freakishly muscular arm, and he's staring right back at me. Scowling, teeth bared like a hungry lion. He's out for the kill. **And** he's got a flair for the theatrics. Strange, 'cause most cops I know are real hardasses.

He could just as soon snap my hyoid bone—cut off air supply—and be done with it. I count on the fact that he doesn't know about the accelerated healing.

"What happened to…Iron Heights?" I manage through Zoom's death grip.

_"IIIIIIIbrokefree. I'vecomeforyouImpullllse."_

His arm looses itself from my neck, and I fall to the ground gasping greedily for air. I wipe the blood from my mouth and try to spot him. I can't see him. I know it. But he's here somewhere. He's always somewhere.

_"Whyyydidyoucomeback?"_

It's a little late for Q and A. But that doesn't stop me from trying to throw him off-track. "Why did **you** come back?"

A thunderclap in my ears, and I'm on the floor again. There's a stinging in my jaw. Broken...form the force of Zoom's hand splitting the bone. Damn.

_"IIIcanbreakeveryboneinyourbody—"_

The stinging is already subsiding. Snaps for a healing factor Slade would envy.

_"—Butyouwouldhealriiiightup"_

"When you're right, you're right," I say, massaging my already-healing jaw. It…tickles. "What's in this for you, Zoom? I can't think of anything you'd need **money** for."

_"NoooIdidthisprobono."_

"Tax write-off. Way to be a prudent consumer."

Another blast of thunder, a bright flash shocks my retinas, and the world goes…fuzzy for a minute. By the time I land, its **daylight** in another city.

Jesus. He really did knock me into the next time zone.

_"WellllcometoFawcettCityImpulse."_

"**_Stop calling me that!_**" I snap, and pick up my speed. Near Mach 1, I can finally spot him. He's standing in front of me, at least 100 yards ahead. And he's not getting any closer.

This sucks balls. I'm running at near-peak velocity, and Zoom's not even trying. Suddenly, he's right alongside me. Racing me. Baiting me.

Going from top speed to a complete stop is something I've perfected, and it never fails to trip up Wally or Jay. Zoom is different. He stops right with me. I can't see past the black 'specs in his mask, but I'm sure his gaze is locked onto me. Analyzing me, cataloguing every move, waiting for the opportune moment. Like a predator. He's waiting to pounce and finish the job. Why doesn't he just do it? I know he's capable of it. So does he.

And I suddenly realize why. A flair for theatrics. He's going for the whole 'fate worse than death' angle, clichéd as it is. Zoom raises his arm and holds his fingers together.

"Don't!—"

A sonic boom explodes from Zoom's fingers. Buildings shatter around us. Cars crush and fly outwards from Zoom in all directions. A small crater forms around ground zero—a 100-yard diameter that got the worst of his sonic booms. I wobble to my knees. Aside from a ringing that won't go away, I can't hear anything. I don't even hear Zoom taunt me. He snaps his fingers again, sends me flying, and the world goes dark.


	9. No

"_What do you want to do with your life?"_

My gloves drip red. Slade's blood smears across my fists and up my forearms. Pummeling him isn't an accurate description.

No, I'm beating Slade to death. Which is odd, given my less-than superhuman capabilities, and Slade's, well, superhuman abilities.

He's a source for me to take my anger out on.

How many times have we let him slip by? How many times have we let him go because the authority wasn't in our hands? Most criminals rip off banks. Slade Wilson? He takes whatever he can--whatever pays the most. As long as he gets paid, he's fine with doing whatever it takes to finish the job, civility be damned.

A right hook slams across Slade's face, and I hear a crack. I can't tell—and don't care—if it's my fist shattering or his maxilla bone. For the moment, I'm focused on gaining the upperhand. For the moment anyway, the rest of the world melts away...

What was it Bruce told me once? "To beat your enemy, think like your enemy."

Not difficult.

Slade Wilson has always thought his actions were justifiable. Always thought he operated within perfectly reasonable grounds of morality and righteousness. And who could argue? As long as his check is deposited, Slade walks away from any responsibility for his actions.

No…

Slade Wilson is a thug. He associates with other thugs. He's the playground bully who's pushed us around for years. And it's not going to be that way anymore.

"There," I say, slamming another fist into his nose. Between hits, I can see his nose crooks a bit; the cartilage is split from the bone. Good. "How does that feel?"

I let up for a moment. I pull a razor batarang on him, and press it slowly into his jugular.

"Where is he?"

Slade coughs up blood, spits it in my face. I disregard it.

"Who?" He chokes weakly. His voice is gritty and nasal, a byproduct of the broken cartilage and blood coursing its way down his throat. For the moment Slade has to breathe through his mouth. He takes deep gasps—as deep as he can anyway—when he's got a Boy Wonder sitting on top of him, crushing his lungs. Healing power be damned, I **can** break him.

I move the razor batarang up his face, holding it just below his good eye. His eye flashes to the batarang momentarily, then back at me.

"I'll ask again. Where is he?"

"Around," Slade patronizes.

"**_That's not good enough!_**"

Another right hook sends teeth and blood from Slade's jaw.

My arm burns. I've probably injured some bones—my own and definitely some of Slade's. But I don't care. Slade's face is a series of blood lines and bruises, mostly concentrated around his mandible, temples and nose. His eyepatch remains. His good eye is bloodshot and angry. The area around it burns a deep purple.

I grab the collar of his suit, and stand, pulling him up with me. I'm at full height. Slade hangs lazily in my hands, staring hatefully at me—silently analytical. Part of me wonders if he really **doesn't** know where Conner is.

"Tell me where Luthor's hiding him."

"Go to Hell," he grumbles angrily. His head hangs back at an angle.

"Tell me now!"

"Or what?"

"I **finish **what your wife started," I challenge, bringing the razor batarang back to Slade's face. I stare into his cold blue eye…and he stares right back at me.

I half expect Bruce to come walking up behind me, slap a hand on my shoulder and tell me to let Deathstroke go. But…no. Bruce isn't going to show up—I didn't ask him to. Deathstroke isn't going to get away—I'm not letting him.

Not this time.

"I **can** break you."

"No," he says and shakes his head. "You can't."

A flash out of the corner of my eye, and I release my grip on Slade a nanosecond too late. His leg slips around one of mine and puts me in a leg-lock, and he shoves off.

The force of Slade's flip throws me over top of him, and I land square on one of my vertebrae. The pain momentarily paralyzes me.

My eyes flutter open, and Slade's already standing over me. His broadsword is clutched tightly in his hand, the sharpened end now pressed against my jugular. He's good.

"You underestimated me," Slade says, half amused and half suprised. "It's a common mistake."

I lay there. Beaten, huddled on the cold floor. My face hurts. My hands hurt. My body hurts. I underestimated him. Thought…if I could keep him down long enough, he'd stay that way.

I let my anger get the best of me. Once I had him pinned down, I let loose. Everything came out. I got…reckless. I was never reckless. I was always the detective. The **most** like Batman. The one who would sit in the cave waiting for him to send me back samples from the crime scene, so I could analyze them and tell Bruce what he needed to know.

Bruce is…a **fusion** of brains and brawn. The pinnacle, in his way. He's fought Slade twice. The first time they met, Bruce was overwhelmed. The second time...Bruce came prepared. He always prepares. And when he doesn't…he improvises.

He could lose both his legs and still find a way to beat his opponent. Bruce can adapt. He can become something else entirely. Me?

"_What do you want to do with your life?"_

I'm Tim Drake. Robin…the Boy Wonder…

I stare at the glistening blade of Slade's sword, my eyes course across the shimmering blade, up Slade's arm, and lock on him. I don't try to move. His message is clear.

For the moment, Slade Wilson stares coldly at me, his mouth drawn downwards an almost depressed frown.

"You're good," he says.

He reaches down, and rips the utility belt from my waist, stares at it puzzlingly for a few seconds. With a slight shrug, he tosses it over his shoulder like a wet towel.

"But I'm better."

He tosses the sword in the air. It flips and lands reversed in his hand. He's holding the end of the blade now, with the hilt facing me.

In a flash, the sword leaves my sight, and a blinding pain slaps across my face. And the world goes dark.

* * *

Light. 

Harsh. It's from overhead. My eyes adjust fairly rapidly. I suddenly figure out I'm not dead, because apparently a higher purpose values my company.

I can't feel much of anything below my waist. It's…a little disconcerting. I open and close my mouth slowly, trying to bring feeling back. The cartilage clicks almost noiselessly. There's a pounding in my head.

I realize I'm horizontal. On the floor. And it's cold. Maybe…purposefully.

"Bart Allen," a voice calls to me from somewhere. It almost rings a bell. "Grandson of **Barry** Allen, is it?"

I can't feel my legs. Ironically enough, I can sense the impulses; I know I'm trying to move them. But I can't. Why not?

"I can't feel my legs," I say, half panicking.

"Calm down," the voice says. "You've been injected with a metabolic inhibitor. We'll call it that for lack of a better word."

"Where am I?"

"Can't you tell? That brain of yours should have figured it out within picoseconds of regaining consciousness."

No, Sherlock I can't. Sheesh, you read one library and everyone thinks you're freakin' Aristotle.

My head turns to one side, and I see him—**them**. The source of the voice. He's familiar. Part of me wonders why he's even here. He has a company to run. Or I thought he did. I recognize him from the war a few years back. When Young Justice got back from Apokolips, he presented us with medals of service (which we were later told to **discard**, thank-you-very-much Tim).

Lex Luthor. A bald James Bond, sans the accent, double up on everything else. Most of all…the superiority complex. Yeah, he carries that kind of supremacy with him. It's a well-concealed red flag, but it's still there. Almost makes me feel important and worthless at the same time.

Everything's a little fuzzy, but I can make out basic shapes and symbols. I can see Lex's skull glistening in the light like some divine bowling ball. I can see he's seated. I can see he's surrounded by…people. But I can't make out the details.

"Interesting that it took you that long to catch on," he says in that tone of some snooty doctor. "So much for the, ah, Fastet Boy Alive, eh?"

Luthor and the people around him sit a few yards a way from me, on a tiered dais. My vision starts to clear, and I can make out everyone around him. He's the only one seated. The others: a woman in a skintight, dark green jumpsuit. A man wearing the remnants of a hard day at the office: worn kahkis, a faded white button-down, suspenders, a loosely-bound red necktie, and spectacles that hang loosely off his nose. He's fiddling with a Palm Pilot, not even paying attention to the situation. And there's the floating one. He looks like a capeless Captain Marvel—dressed in blue. But he's not the weirdest one.

Sitting on one of the arms of Luthor's little quasi-throne, his arms folded over his chest…

No…

Conner.

* * *

_Continued... _

* * *


	10. Compromise

I've been shafted.

Conner's turned his back on me—on all of us.

But something's not right. Something doesn't fit.

The rest of them—Luthor and the blue Captain Marvel especially—look vindicated. So assured of victory. I can hardly blame them though. Somehow, they've managed to incapacitate me.Luthor called it ametabolic inhibitor.

I lay on the floor, a few yards away from Luthor's little cabal. I still can't feel my legs. For once, I'm at the end of my rope.

Yeah. Conner looks…out of sorts. He knows he doesn't belong here. I know it. Maybe Luthor does too. But then again…that's what separates people like the Titans from people like Luthor. We may both make our respective stupid mistakes.

But Luthor makes them more.

He's paranoid. Untrustworthy. He can't trust anyone around him, and he can't control himself. I keep that in mind.

Conner's uncomfortable. I can tell just by the way he's sitting on the arm of Luthor's quasi-throne. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he's slouching, staring distractedly at the floor. Not standing straight and tall like the rest of them. Even Luthor's shifted in his seat to make himself look imposing. It almost works for him.

He knows he's safe.

"Do you know why you're here, Bart?" Luthor asks narrowly.

"Deathstroke wants another trophy for his wall. Guess my mug's that good enough."

"Not quite."

Inexplicably, suddenly, I'm lifted off the ground. Something's grabbing my hair. I can't see anything. I can feel a death-grip on the back of my skull, hauling me towards Luthor like some animal to be sacrificed…but I can't see **him**.

_"Zooommmm."_

He drops me a foot or so away from the dais, right at Luthor's feet.

The drawbacks of having long hair are numerous. Chief among them: it's an easy out. Zoom could have made me into a little Luthor right there. Why didn't he? It seems he's here for the same reason as me: a higher purpose **wants** him here.

I keep that in mind.

I manage enough strength to sit up, still slouched, in a lazy kind of Indian-style. Luthor and his pals stare at me coldly, angling their heads from side to side like scientists. Creepy.

"So," I say lightly. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

"Certainly," Luthor says, standing. As soon as Luthor's vertical, Conner slides into his seat. Conner isn't even focused on the situation; his gaze is locked on the floor. Almost like he's looking…through it. Of course. He's got x-ray vision. Silly me.

"You are here, Bart Allen, because we wish to **help** you."

"We?"

"Myself…and my society."

"Are they really **your** Society? You're being awfully territorial."

Luthor's eyes narrow, as if he's taken offense to what I just said. "Perhaps you refer to the misbegotten idea of a social **hierarchy**."

I roll my eyes. I've known this guy for about three minutes, and he's already first-naming me. Sheesh. Still…

"Social Hierarchy?" I feign interest.

"We're not like your Justice League."

"Yeah," I say skeptically. "Right."

"We are here for the higher cause. We're not corrupt and shiftless. We…seek to right wrongs."

"Like what?" Yeah, he's full of crap, but part of me wants to hear him out. Explain that one to me.

Luthor turns back to me and scowls. He apparently was born without a personality; otherwise, he'd be telling me what's on his so-called mind instead of shooting me soap-opera scowls. I suppose it's lucky for me that he's the one doing the talking. He's the one without superpowers. Otherwise, I suspect, I would have been turned into dust by now.

Yeah. Luthor's staring at me narrowly, through cold and analytical eyes. Like he's…cataloguing me.

"Wally never **told **you what happened to Dr. Light, did he?"

For a moment, conceptions go right out the window. I remember…something…

"How the League violated his mind? How they turned him from an A-lister…to a joke. Literally overnight."

"They wouldn't do that," I challenge.

"What's to **stop **them?" Luthor rebuffs innocently. "A gang of super-powered gods hovering above us with no checks or balances. Up there, in their orbiting Valhalla. They can hardly resist the temptations...to **abuse **their power. And what's to hold them back? Who's going to march into that Watchtower and say 'I disagree'?"

"You're wrong," I say. "They're not like that."

"You don't know what they're like. If they even value what you fight for…"

"Then what is **this**?" I say, pointing to Conner. I'm privately surprised that I've found some momentary strength. But it's not enough. "Is this how you snagged him in? Misinformation? Lies?"

"No," Luthor says idly. "I told him the truth. As you can see...he's taking his time digesting it. He certainly has a lot."

"What truth?"

"That you…and your Titans…are idolaters. You worship **false** gods. Fallible ones. No better than you or me, or the fat slob riveting girders into place down at the Novick Building."

"Point being…" I stand my ground. His silver tongue's got nothing on my smart-ass-edness. Is that even a word? Tim would know.

Conner's still silent. He has been the whole time. Like his mind is trying to digest the scope of what's going on now, along with whatever tripe Luthor's planted in him.

"You're wasting your time," Luthor says. "Trying to be the greater squires of lesser knights. You should be doing more. Aspiring for a great goal."

"Y'know, you're awfully hypocritical. Pointing out the flaws of heroes, while you yourself…are one of the worst villains any of us have ever seen. And I'm not even mentioning your daughter. Where is she, by the way?"

"**Adam**," Luthor says, turning to the blue Captain Marvel. "Break his legs."

The blue Marvel—still floating—leans forward a bit, and angles down the steps slowly. His arms are crossed confidently over the big yellow lightning-bolt symbol on his chest. His face is drawn downward in a grim scowl. The mark of silent determination. It's…eerie and impressive at the same time.

He lands noiselessly in front of me, and takes a knee. A broad hand, veined and browned from exposure to the sun I'm guessing, clasps itself around my ankle. Next thing I know, this Adam guy is holding my right leg up in the air like some kind of physical therapist. With one hand held around my ankle, Adam takes his other and places it on top of my knee.

Adam holds my knee in place and shoves my leg forward, like he's shifting gears on an old Chevy S-10.

I can hear my screams echo through the chamber. Muscles snap away from bones instantly. My throat burns from the scream. My vision cuts out for a few seconds, and I start massaging my broken joint pointlessly.

Even through the mask, I feel my face flushing red. I clench my teeth, trying to shift the pain away from my knee—or what's left of it. I inhale sharply…and tears stream down my face.

Adam lets my leg drop, lifts into the air. Through my cloudy vision, I see dark shapes tower over me. One of them sounds like Luthor.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Bart. Truly, I am. But it's the only way. It is only in losing everything that we become free to do anything. Right now, Bart. **You **can do anything."

"Wh…what…what do you want?"

"We're prepared to offer you something far greater…far more valuable than what you have now. A position where your work will be respected…desired…**needed**."

Luthor kneels and puts a hand on my shoulder, staring deeply into my eyes. He slips a thumb under my mask, and pushes it back off my face. My hair droops in front of my face. Luthor clears it away, his fingrs grazing my forehead lightly.

"We can **help** you, Bart…"

His voice is penetrating and calm at the same time. His burning green eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment part of me wonders what Luthor wants from this. When he says 'we'…he's really only talking about himself.

"Can you help **us**?"

* * *

I'm not entirely sure how Bruce Wayne does it. I know why he does it. I understand honor all too well. That is what this is. He fights for stolen honor. So do I. In this way, we're alike. In many others, though, we're different. Night and day.

That costume of his. Not mobile. It doesn't allow for easy movement.

But it serves its purpose just the same. I don't intend to cavort around this town doing his work, and I wouldn't expect him to take contracts on…the scum of humanity. Batman, he may be. But he's still unwilling to make compromises.

That's what it's about, really. Life…is making balance of what you have. Making compromises. Ensuring that—for it all to ride smoothly—it all **fits** smoothly.

Right now. Things….are smooth. It could be better. But in this line of work, I've had to compromise my share of things; truths that were escapable—easily overcome—but difficult to let go of just the same. In this line of work, I've come to accept my wins where I can.

This suit. It rides **up** with wear. It's no imitation either. When WayneTech R&D was bought out a few months ago, I gained access the technological secrets Wayne had kept tucked away in his warehouses and secondary "Batcaves" he hides around this city.

And the cape. I see why he wears it. I don't like it. But I don't have to. All I have to do…is what I must.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Rose?" I pull the skin mask over my face; the infrared sensor in my right eye socket switches on automatically, and I see her. Rose. My daughter. My…legacy.

She's all I have left now. After Grant…Joey.

"Are we ready?"

"Yes," I say, clearing my throat. "I think we finally are."

* * *

**_Continued... _**


	11. Exposure

"Lex."

"What is it, Conner?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

I appear in front of him instantly. Super-speed has its upsides. "You didn't have to break his leg."

"I did what I had to, Conner," Lex says casually. He slips his hands into his pockets and starts to walk past me. I shoot an arm out, and he stops before I clothes-line him.

"Tell me why you did it. Tell me there's a reason."

"I had to disconnect him from the equation, my boy. He would have compromised everything."

"Not good enough."

Lex's eyes narrow and he folds his arms over his chest. "You have a problem?"

"Yes," I say pressingly. "You think you can get away with anything—"

"Let's not forget who came to whom, Conner," he rebuffs. "You want solutions? You're going to have to work through **problems**."

I exhale slowly, and lower my arm. He can talk his way out of anything, can't he. Damn this. Damn him. But I did it to myself. **For** myself.

"Come, my boy," he says, in fake satisfaction. "I have something I want to show you."

* * *

I'm a prisoner.Ain't it always the way? You get to the bottom of something...you dig and scrape and work your ass off. It's only at the **end** that they break your legs and throw you in some dank cell. 

Jerks.

The only question…why didn't Conner do anything? He could have. He should have. But he didn't.

He just **sat there**, and let Black Adam break my legs. For a second, I don't know who to blame: myself for being stupid enough to let Conner go, Adam for actually breaking my legs, or Conner for letting it all happen.

He turned his back on me. Jerk.

Luthor and his cronies (y'know, **after** they broke my legs) locked me in this dark cell like some animal.

What kind of jerk asks a guy "can you help us" and then throws him in some cell. Even for Luthor, this is wacky. Part of me wonders what he's got up his sleeve. The other part's itching liek wcked bad to get out of here.

They've got me tied down. Literally. Chains anchored the floor connect to each of my limbs—my legs at the ankles, and my arms at the wrists. I can't pull them apart—I'm not that strong.

However, I can speed myself up and vibrate through the metal. For the moment, I decide to play along with Luthor. Because you see, it's fun to think you have the upper hand. But it's even better to prove someone wrong.

So I have two options. Stay here, play my hand for a while and see what these yokels are up to. Or break out. Problem there is, I don't know what kind of defenses Luthor built into this place, or who might be out there ready to beat me up and throw me right the hell back in here.

It's interesting though. Most people underestimate the power of a speedster. Not only can we run fast, but some of us can actually get going fast enough to vibrate through solids. It's wacky…but I can already feel this metabolic inhibitor wearing off.

So I watch. I wait. For them to screw up. Villains, they may be. United? Sure seems like it.

But they'll slip up. Always do.

* * *

"Where are we going Lex?" 

"I want to show you something."

"Don't worry, Conner," Lex says. "You're going to want to see this."

I shake my head wearily, privately cursing myself for going along with this.

I just **sat there**. Sat there like a wuss and let them beat up Bart. I could have done something. I **should** have done something. But I couldn't have taken them alone. Luthor, yes. Calculator, God yes. Not Black Adam though. He's got years on me. Not to mention the whole magic thing.

So I wait. I watch. I bide my time. And I hope that by now Clark's figured out none of the Titans are in 'Frisco.

Lex leads me down a long flight of stairs to a sprawling bunker. Our footsteps echo on the stone steps and reverberate back up the corridor. It's…quiet. Eerily so.

"What is this place?"

"Fallout shelter I had designed some years ago, in the wake of Superman's death—"

"—Before **me**?"

"Yes," he says flatly. "It was designed after Superman's death. A little insurance policy I devised."

"In case of what?"

"Oh...I have my reasons."

"Sheesh," I say quietly.

"What?"

"Even **before** you got elected, you were running around safe houses. You're gonna give the shadow government a bad name."

"Indeed."

We stop before what looks like elevator doors. Two bronze-colored sliding doors, each intricately carved with a scene of a sun rising. It's all very Art Deco, you ask me. Luthor's an art-snob, if nothing else.

He presses a thumb against a single red LED button. A few inches above, a piece of the wall slides out with a faint whoosh, and slides back, revealing a circular red lens. Lex leans in close to it, and opens an eye wide. A thin red beam streams from the lens, reading Lex's optic signature. A few seconds later, the elevator doors slide open.

And it's not an elevator at all.

It's a lab. Well...sort of.

Bookcases line one side of it, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. The other side displays something that looks slightly less technological than what Clark has in the Fortress. A giant computer terminal. One big plasma screen and a few others surrounding it. They all glow with information. Lex approaches the keyboard and punches in a series of numbers. The main plasma screen lights up, and displays a message:

_System Access._

Lex taps the keyboard, and digitized characters fill in the white spaces. His username reads 'Snapdragon.'

Hmmm.

The main screen flickers to life and displays a message in green digitized characters:

_Good Morning, Lex. _

One of the monitor screens shows The Penguin sitting behind a desk, talking to Deadshot. Another's looking at some court case. I can't make out any of the faces. And another...shows Wayne Manor; the exterior anyway.

"What **are** all these, Lex?"

"Pet projects," he says, pressing a button.

"Like what?"

Before Lex has a chance to react, a red siren-light next to the keyboard starts flashing. A single digitized beep is coming from the computer.

Lex turns around, presses the enter key, and the image of Wayne Manor changes to an image of...the Calculator.

"What is it, Noah?" Lex asks impatiently.

"We have...a problem."

"Such as?"

"Someone's found us out. I...uh..."

"What, Noah. What is it!"

"It looks like Batman, sir."

* * *

Continued...

* * *


	12. Break Out

This sucks.

I'm sitting here, chained down by Luthor's goons. Alive—barely. Black Adam breaks my leg, and Conner does nothing. Nothing. He just sits there. I almost can't believe it. Can't believe he would turn his back on me. But then again, Conner's always been a question mark. Never telling anyone anything. Just sits in his room most of the time moping. Get a freakin' life. When he does come out, he's either quiet or angry. Not my fault he has super-hearing and can hear my iPod rockin' out the Green Day.

But that's Conner. Always blaming someone else. Always looking everywhere but right in-freakin-front of him for answers. Jerk.

I almost wish Conner would come walking in here right about now. I'd give him a piece of my freakin' mind.

It's one thing to go over someone's head and do something. It's something distinctly different—**worse**—when your best friend gets assaulted.

Yeah, I'd give him a piece of my mind. Probably break my hand in the process, but…meh. It's a small price to pay for me to vent anger. I could do it, too. Tim's been teaching me some boxing moves in his free time. I'm getting better. Brains **and** brawn.

I could take Conner. It wouldn't last long, but I could do it. I just might. Once I get out of here. Speaking of which...

It could be going better.

In the movies, the guy usually carries a lock-pick with him or some kind of skeleton key so he can bust out of his shackles and go MacGyver on his captors. Nah…this isn't the movies, and I'm no MacGyver.

But I can get out of this just the same. I can speed up my molecules fast enough to vibrate through solids. It's a neat little trick I ripped from Wally some time ago. The first time I tried it though…Jay didn't take to kindly to me destroying his garage.

My mind shifts back to the situation.

I don't have a lock pick, and I can't speed up fast enough and keep it quiet. Though…if I got going fast enough, I could be out of here before any of them know it. I could find a transporter and get up to the Moon, then bring the whole League down here. Expose Luthor's little cabal.

I turned 'em down.

Luthor said the purpose of his society was to stop what happened to Dr. Light from happening to the rest of the villain racket. Because, y'know, if you want to stop whatever they did to Dr. Light then the logical thing to do is…**continue **the villain shtick.

Morons.

Part of me is surprised—and offended—that old Egghead thought he could recruit us. Only figures though. Why stop with recruiting villains? Why not try to persuade the people you fight against…to join you? Yeah, the whole thing reeks of that old Arab proverb…'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' and...so forth.

Say Luthor told Conner the same thing he told me. Luthor walks up to Conner and says "Superman and his pals can't be trusted but I can." The only question…would Conner have actually gone for it? Part of me—the part that wants to break Conner's legs—says yes. Another part…

Why did he turn his back on us? He didn't have to.

I tell myself there's a reason.

Suddenly, the utility door in front of me slides open.The shape of a man is outlined against the light beyond. This is…unexpected. The red and green color scheme, the flowing cape. He's wearing a dark—black, in certain lights—domino mask over his face. His black hair hangs over his eyes. All in all, he looks like he just woke up. But it's still a welcome sight.

Robin--**Tim**.

"This is a surprise," I say, wearing a smile.

Tim starts talking to me. "I take it Zoom got the better of you," he says in half-concern.

"Yeah," I say quietly.

Tim approaches me and pulls—tada!—a lock-pick from that utility belt of his. He kneels beside me and starts fiddling with the shackles. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting you out of here," he says as he starts unlocking the shackles.

"How'd you get in?"

Tim looses the shackles and tucks the lock-pick back into his belt.

"I had a little help."

"From who?"

"You wouldn't believe me," Tim says with a half-smile, flashing his pearly whites at me.

"Try me," I say.

"Deathstroke...and Ravager."

"Rose is with him?"

Tim nods slowly. "Luthor wanted you and I taken out **before** we could find Conner. Figured we'd make the first move—"

"Which we did."

"Yeah," Tim says. "But Lex forgot one thing."

"Deathstroke." For a moment, I almost question Luthor's intelligence. Almost.

"Yep."

"So what happened?" I ask, massaging my knee. It's gone from a stinging pain to more of a…muscle cramp. And that's really what it is, I guess. The muscles—tendons, really—are reconnecting to the bone and that artificial kneecap. Wonders of human physiology.

"It's tricky," Tim says. "On one hand you have mob rule where pretty much everyone follows the herd. On the other hand…"

"There's always a **traitor**," I say slowly, as if the light bulb just clicked. Robin nods and helps me to my feet.

I feel like a freakin' cripple. One of my arms is slung around Robin's shoulder for support. My knee's still healing, but I can't do the speed thing. Not yet.

Robin and I shuffle through the winding hallways of Luthor's bunker.

"Where are we going?" I whisper to Tim.

"To find Conner."

"And Luthor?"

"That," Tim says, pausing for a second. "We won't have to worry about that."

"So…Deathstroke let you go?"

"Not without a fight."

"And now he's helping you. Us. Whatever."

"Man's got priorities. I wasn't about to cry foul," Tim says. We keep moving.

So that's the way it goes. Neither of us says much, either in the way of small talk or how we plan to take Luthor. Especially since he's got Conner—a Super Boy. Not to mention Black Adam—who could beat us all before we knew what was going on.

'Course…Tim never **was** much on small talk.

Luthor's bunker stretches the length of what Tim says is Runway 14 at Goodwin International. It seems to work to our advantage that Luthor doesn't have armed security roaming his bunker. But then again…I'm with Tim. He can **protect** me.

We round a corner, and two bronze-colored doors lie a few feet ahead of us. They almost look like they lead to elevators Gold and silver bars criss-cross the doors. It's all very Art Deco, you ask me. I feel Tim inhale deeply. I do the same.

"You ready for this?" he asks. "What about your knee?"

"Screw the knee," I say. "I can **do** this."

* * *

Continued... 


	13. A Life

_"And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them."  
Isaiah 42:16

* * *

_

It was years ago. Years—five at least—since Westfield called and told me he needed a human donor for the project to carry through successfully. A clone body didn't matter. The DNA was essentially the same; minor tampering allowed for few loopholes.

So much has happened since then—since the Alien died. Gains...losses.

A death brought on by a ring I carried for years prior. A **rebirth** in a revitalized body, courtesy of the late Drs. Happersen and Donovan. A deal with the devil; my soul in exchange for a chance at **glory**.

And when I returned…a wife. Erica, the Contessa. She bore me a daughter—Lena. Named in honor of a friend from…yet another life. Lena was—is—the hallmark of my empire, my life. I lost her once to Brainiac. Not the Brainiac of old, the alien who had inhabited the body of a circus vagrant and, later, Doomsday. This Brainiac was from a far-flung…dystopian future. He carried with him information vital to that future. To me. He requested that Lena be put under his protection. In return for hegemony over the technology he brought with him…I gave my only heir over to Brainiac-13.

But I got her back. The circle completed itself. Every child leaves home and returns. At least once.

Every child. Even the one who locks himself away in his room, cranks up the music and consistently trumpets his hatred for all figures of authority.

The thing about authority figures though…we win. Always.

Because we're figures of authority.

Society—not just American either; all society—is based upon control. Institutional, governmental, personal. It doesn't matter. People spend their lives dedicated to finding new ways to corral others. It is a fact of life. Freedom is something of a misnomer. Misleading at best and hollow at worst.

People are not free when held under the constraint of some eye in the sky. They are not free when monitored and **told** to, when their only alternative is **destruction. **They are free when…they wish to be. When they seek it out. Like the insipid notion of love…freedom is not gratis. Not a given in life. It cannot be signed over by some legal document, and it cannot be accrued by years of faithful service to a higher cause. It must be found. Dug up from the ashes using the instruments before you: your hands and your wit.

And yet…sometimes the truth must be presented, forcefully if dangerously. But the same result is achieved in either scenario. It is a balance; that's the nature—and the trick—about **life**.

Freedom…is mankind's gift to himself.

He must find it himself. He must **seek it out**, actively engaging the world in which he lives. He digs, and searches, and works, and sweats. Until one day he finds what he is looking for. Where he takes his findings, what he makes of them…is up to him. The artifact does not tell him, and no one else can.

Solutions do not present themselves so easily. They don't come in brightly wrapped packages with neon lights flashing discounts and rebates. Not anymore.

And so we must look for them. Root them out by whatever means we choose, hoping that our work will be rewarded with **truth**.

Yes…these are the things that **matter** in a life.

"How **are** you, Conner?" .

"Cold, Lex," he says rigidly.

"Of course," I say, pulling a remote from my pocket. It's connected to a remote infrared sensor in the wall just beyond where Conner is seated. A little bonus we included in military contracts LexCorp won for the Kosovo operation some years back. I press the single red button, and I can instantly feel the overhead heat vents pump warm air down over the main chamber. "How foolish of me."

"What are you keeping me here for?"

"As I recall," I say, taking interest in my cuticles. "I believe you came to me. I almost wonder why we seem to be **retreading** this."

"I came looking for answers. Now give them to me."

"Don't think too hard, son. You may…**hurt** something."

I walk closer to him. He's seated lazily in my chair, situated in the center of the dais. I step closer, and kneel next to the chair, laying my hand on top of his. I can feel the blood pulsing through his veins. I lean in close to him, whispering in his ear.

"Our old friend Dr. Psycho saw to that, didn't he?"

Silence. For a teenager, he's not terribly interested in conversation. Hmm…one of the more endearing traits from Superman. Although…

"Conner, have I ever told you about Supergirl?"

"Kara?" His eyes lightt up for a moment.

"No," I say dismissively. "Not her. Not her at all. The Supergirl I speak of came to me from another universe. It was quite happenstance actually. I mentioned another universe—another Earth if you will. On this parallel earth, another version of me had created this Supergirl and sent her through an interdimensional matrix."

I reach into my jacket, and produce a cigar and a zippo with the LexCorp logo on it. Hmm...

It's almost moot at this point. LexCorp is a **shell **of its former self. An empty monolith lording voer downtown Metropolis. Assets liquidated by myself and Talia. It had to be that way. In order to fund…this Society.

Whatever LexCorp is--**was**…this Society is infinitely more important.

"This Supergirl from the alternate Earth…was mine, Conner," I say. The zippo sparks to life. The end of the cigar singes a hot orange as it starts to burn. 'She came to me lost, alone…an alien in this world."

The smoke fills my lungs. I hold it in…and release. It's one of my habits that Lois never cared for. "I helped her, Conner. I showed her the truth, and she became…a confidant."

"A servant?"

"Not per se. She aided me, and I her. I thought…she could provide me a means with which to…avenge myself against Superman."

"She was a tool to you, then?"

"Her usefulness," I say, exhaling. The smoke envelops my head in a thick cloud. "Outlived itself. You…are far more important to me."

"Really?"

"I have said it many times before, Conner." He stares into my eyes, and I stare right back. He won't use his heat vision on me. He…sees something in me. Not quite sure what, but he sees something just the same.

"You are the most gifted…**metahuman**…I've ever known."

"I know," he says quietly. His eyes drift away from me for a moment, like he's in deep concentration. I almost wonder what that little orb atop his shoulders is processing.

"Join me," I say. "My Society. We can help you…protect you against the injustices of the League."

"How can I be sure?" he asks. It almost catches me off-guard. Part of me wonders if Dr. Psycho's mind-manipulation is working. Or if Psycho himself is even trying. "I've heard these arguments before."

"You grow tired of the life you lead, Conner. I can see it on your face. You want **more**." I clutch the dying cigar between my fingers, and start pacing before the dais. "I can give it to you. The life you seek is **not** so far out. I can give it to you. All I ask is that you join us. Learn to work with this Society, and you will achieve everything you have ever wanted. Status. Wealth. Influence. **Meaning **to your life."

I lean in close and whisper in his ear.

"There is only one thing…**two** things…holding you back."

* * *

_**Continued...**_

* * *


	14. Face off

Conner sits rigidly in the ottoman. A portion of the stonework floor slides back and a pedestal rises from beneath. It's a small LED projector, rising just a few inches from the floor. Enough to show Conner what I want him to see.

I press a button on the remote control in my hand, and the room darkens. The LED blinks to life, and shows a three-dimensional view of the Earth. Hovering above Manhattan or thereabouts is a small digitized gray-colored satellite. The underside—aimed down somewhere over —is colored a bright red. I stare at the digitized array for a moment, and then start pacing around the hologram in a tight circle.

"Right now," I say to Conner. I don't even bother looking at him. And why should I? His attention is focused on the projector's display. "Up in space, there exists a satellite with your name all over it. It is **watching** you, Conner. Watching…waiting."

"What does it want?" he asks, as if the satellite is a sentient being.

"It was constructed for one purpose. Singular in intention yet...**infinitely** more complex. This satellite is called the Brother Eye. And it is up there—with its lens pointing down at us—for the express purpose of monitoring and cataloguing every single one of the metahumans in this world."

"How many of those are there?"

"About one point three million at last calculation. And that's an approximation."

Conner mutters something that sounds like 'Jesus'. I disregard it. "And of that statistic, the Brother Eye keeps a special tab on the **caped** ones. The ones who save trains from derailing. The ones made from the clay of the Earth. Those are the ones that matter. The ones the **Brother** says are dangerous."

"And?"

"Well, far be it from me to dispute the true nature of the metahumans around us, my boy. However…this behavior cannot be allowed to continue."

"The satellite. Why? It's not like they're watching **you**."

"Oh, but they are, Conner. The Brother Eye is under the control of an organization known as Checkmate. They watch **everyone**."

"You don't like being watched." Not a question. Good. It means he's learning.

"Not particularly. Especially when Checkmate has no business...with **my **business."

"So it's revenge? You want me to take out this satellite."

I turn to Conner and smile thinly. "Yes."

"Why?" His voice is…unnaturally aggressive. He might be proving more difficult to control than we thought. "Since when do you care about the rest of the world?"

"People have no right to be lorded over by some eye in the sky, Conner. What right does Checkmate have to watch us—simple people trying to make our way? None. We deserve to live our lives **away** from the watchful scrutiny of the Brother Eye. This is where **you** come in." My voice changes to a sympathetic tenor. "I need your **help**, son. I need you to destroy this."

"For who? This is personal glory for you, isn't it? You'll go down as Lex Luthor, the great destroyer of the evil Checkmate."

"Not quite," I say with a grin. "All I want to do is put people's destiny in their own hands." I press a button on the remote, and the image of the satellite dissolves. The lights overhead come back up, and I file the remote away in my jacket. "In order for this to happen, the obstacles that prevent people—us—from reaching that destiny…must be destroyed."

I turn to Conner, half-expecting a reaction. His rigidity is unsurprising. Psycho's mind manipulation is working at a reduced level. Just enough to keep the boy from vaporizing me. Fortunate.

"But…there is **one** more chore to attend to, Conner."

I walk up the dais, towards the ottoman. I place an arm on Conner's shoulder, and turn my head slightly to him. "Wouldn't you agree, **Robin**?"

I turn around to see the main doors. Robin stands in the threshold, with the Kid Flash strung around his shoulder like a cripple. It's unclear to me how long he's been in here. It couldn't have been very long though. I should have expected it though. He's as resourceful as Batman, and twice as passionate. Admirable. Foolish, but admirable.

"Lex," he says confidently. "Let him go."

"I'm afraid that decision rests with **him**," I say, motioning to Conner. "You'll have to ask him."

The Kid Flash releases his arm from around Robin's shoulder. He stands free now—shifting his weight, though. His knee isn't back to full strength. I make a note of that. The two of them ready themselves into fighting stances.

My eyes narrow, and I snap my fingers. From the darkness behind the ottoman, Black Adam, Talia and Dr. Psycho join me at my side.

"As you can see, Boy Wonder," I say proudly. "Mine are bigger than yours."

"We'll see," Robin challenges lightly.

* * *

I pull three Batarangs from my belt, clutch them between my fingers, and go for it. The cape flares back beyond my shoulders, carried by the air current. And Luthor's group gets closer in my field of vision.

"Psycho, you stay here," Luthor says quickly, most of his attention focused on keeping Conner out of play. For once, I hope I've caught him off-guard.

I go for Talia. Except for a handgun holstered around her waist, she's unarmed. She won't sue the gun on me—she'd much rather lock horns on an intellectual level. Try to talk me down, or use force as a last result. But I'm not getting talked out of this one.

She's good, though. Trained by her late father and, by probable extension, Shiva. Which makes us just about evenly matched.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Black Adam head for Bart. Bart can run circles around Adam…I hope so, anyway. I don't have time to worry about that.

Talia's mouth drops into a scowl. Her legs anchor themeselves to the floor. She raises an arm in front of her face, extending her fingers vertical rigidly, bisecting her face. Her deep brown eyes. Before I can react, she's landed a boot in my temple.

* * *

I lean in close to Conner, whispering calmly in his ear. "Power denied is power **wasted**, Conner." After a pause: "Use **your** power, and bring this to an **end**."

* * *

_**Continued...**_

* * *

Author's Note: In a little deviation from the comics, I've added the idea that the Brother Eye would watch not only powerful heroes like Superman, but also powerful villains such as Luthor. The leitmotif is that the Brother Eye is the literal translation of omnipresence. 


	15. The Only Way redux

_**Author's Note:**_ This is a reloaded version of Chapter 15. Resultant from some formatting changes that apparently didn't get through the system, I present it to you again for consideration. Dialogue is changed in areas. Black Adam's line at the end has been forestalled till next chapter, as I'm a sucker for a good cliffhanger. So that's it. Consider this a _retcon _if you will, as the ending bit with Black Adam has been, for the time being, left a mystery (though not much of one). I'm a stickler for formatting; as the narrative shifts, I wanted to make this all as accessible as I could. Enjoy.

_**Author's Note II:**_ Just a note on narrative for clarity's sake: Tim in a little quasi-soliloquoy, then Tim as he's fighting Talia, then finally Bart.

* * *

"They don't trust you, Conner. They feel you're too dangerous. The League…the Titans. They **fear** you. You must break through those concerns; they don't matter. Transcend your limitations…and you will achieve godhood." 

Luthor leans in closer to Conner, whispering calmly to the boy. **"Purpose**, son. Meaning. All the secrets of the world…spread before you."

"You're lying," Superboy mutters.

"Possibly. Can you take that risk?"

Conner looks up to Luthor. The man who had once been the CEO of LexCorp International stared at Superboy through narrow eyes. Crows feet extend out from the corners of his eyes and curve downward a few short centimeters across his aged and worn face—a haggard kind of determination setting in on Luthor. He's waiting for a response from Superboy.

"No," Luthor says, his voice teetering between insanity and glee. "You have the power to end this."

Superboy rises slowly from his chair, stares at the ground for a second, and takes laborious steps down the dais. He moves toward the Kid Flash.

Black Adam—or **Teth**-Adam, depending on who you ask and what you read—has Bart held a few feet in the air, in a chokehold. Superboy shuffles across the main floor, walking towards Bart lazily. Hesitantly. Like he doesn't want to.

Presentation is everything. Superboy…presents himself as lazy. A **jock**. He is anything but. A clone, comprised of DNA from Superman and Luthor, Superboy is at best a curiosity of nature. And at worst? A time bomb.

The latter worries me more.

Luthor **knows **Superboy—what's troubling him, what **drives **him. He exploits it, as he always does. Luthor uses those around him to his advantage. One might argue that Bruce does the same, and I can vouch for that. In this way, they're alike.

Alike, and yet so different. Isn't that usually how it goes, though?

My head hurts. Talia's boot presses itself into my temple. For a moment, I can almost envision my skull splitting at the cranial fissures and my brain spilling onto the floor. Yeah, that's a positive image. Lying there—dead on the floor, my bloated eyes staring up at the ceiling in a hazy glare.

Helpless. Hopeless. Cut down in my prime...a **boomerang **sticking out of my chest...

Talia's a talker. She thinks it'll distract me, and it almost does. "You are nothing like your mentor," she says. Her soft alto sounds…Italian. Almost. "He would never allow himself to be defeated so easily."

Through the pain, my teeth clench together, and I lock a hand around Talia's ankle. Drawing strength from…somewhere, I manage to push her off me. She lands with a dull thud a foot or so away from me. I stand, and dust myself off. I pull my gloves tight against my hands, and let the cape drape over my form. It's theatric, to a point.

The overhead lighting casts a long shadow over Talia's body. She props herself up on her elbows. From behind red-embossed lips, she smiles wickedly. Like she's getting some sick pleasure out of this.

"What now, Boy Wonder? You're impossibly outnumbered."

"I don't intend to take them all one on one," I say quietly. I reach down, grab Talia's collar, and pull her up. My bicep aches in momentary pain. I work through it. "Just you." My voice is gritty. Angry.

"I was mistaken," she says, the smile disappearing. "You…are very much like your mentor."

A brick lands in my crotch and sends me to my knees. A second later I realize the brick is Talia's knee. My head lolls backward, staring up at her. Our eyes meet. "Yes. Neither of you knows when to stay down." She pulls the gun from its holster. It's a Ruger Mark III .22 caliber. Holds 10 rounds, if memory serves. What was it Bruce said? To fight the enemy, know the enemy.

Yeah. I know the type.

But Talia becoming Annie Oakley is…questionable. Maybe Psycho's working her. Maybe not. It's a risk I can't afford running.

The end of the barrel presses into the center of my forehead. She knows how to go for maximum damage—messiness. At this close range, there wouldn't be anything left of me above the neck. Bottom line? Talia's sloppy. I take advantage of that.

I fall to my back, throwing a kick to Talia's elbow. The Ruger falls from her hand, and before she can react, I've got a boot over the barrel. She's not getting to it. And for once, I've got the upper hand.

"Talia," I say. I try my damnedest to restrain the self-efficacy in my voice. "You shouldn't have been defeated so easily."

* * *

Black Adam's got a death grip on my shoulders, making sure I don't go anywhere. Conner's advancing on me slowly. My knee hurts; it's nowhere near to being healed right now. I can feel the sweat matting my hair and mask to my forehead. And for once, I'm stuck without a comeback. 

But something doesn't look right. Conner's got an almost sickly look on his face. Like he doesn't want to do what I fear he's about to—break my other leg and leave me a wreck on the floor for Luthor's pride of lions to rip apart.

And yet it's oddly peaceful. People say that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments right before your car slides off an embankment and into the river, but I wonder about that. My life flashes before my eyes every day. Right before the speed kicks in and the world becomes a series of black blurs in my vision. Wally used to call it the thrill of flight. I love it. The wind rushing against your face. If it was a drug, it'd be illegal. It doesn't even feel like you're running. Its like…some kind of dream.

That…is super-speed.

This? Being held in place waiting for a Franken-Conner to draw and quarter me? This is Hell. Hell is nakedness. Vulnerability. If life is a rope, Hell is dangling at the end of it.

It sucks.

Conner's footsteps slow, and he stops a few feet in front of me. He hangs his head low, staring at the ground like he did before. My eyes scan his body, roll down his linebacker-esque forearms. His hands are formed into tight fists. I go back to his face. His jaws are clenched tightly.

What's he doing?

"What are you waiting for?" Luthor asks from his seat on the dais. His voice is a mixture of annoyance and anger. "Do it."

"No," Conner says, turning to Luthor. "No. I won't."

The corners of Luthor's mouth dip into a scowl. He bares his teeth like some rabid animal, and stands. "Don't you understand? He's holding you back! They **all** are. This is the **only** way."

Conner grabs me in a chokehold, lifts me at least a foot off the ground. Black Adam's hands slide off my shoulders and he backsteps a few paces. Conner's right arm rears back past his head in a clenched fist. Ready to smash my beautiful mug. For a moment, I almost wonder what would Cassie think if she saw Conner like this. She'd probably give him what-for.

A right hook from someone like Zoom is bad enough. But from Conner—the man who shares Luthor's strength of character, and Superman's strength of fist? Yikes. I almost think it's the end. But that doesn't mean I won't go down without a fight.

Conner hesitates for a moment. His mouth closes a bit, and his grip loosens slightly.

"Can't do it, can you?" My voice is…pleading almost. And testing too. Will he really do it? Tune in next week. Same Flash-time, same Flash-channel.

But I won't have to wait till then. Time slows down, and Conner's eyes meet mine. I could find a way out of this. Kick him in the balls or something like that. But it wouldn't accomplish much. I'd still be a speedster without the ability to speed anywhere. It's all very lame-horse, Catch-22, you ask me. Lousy Heller...

In a nanosecond, the right hook comes for me. Instinctively, my head jerks to the right, to avoid it. But then…I realize that Conner wasn't aiming for me anyway.

He lets me fall out of his grip. I land with a dull thud, just in time to see Conner's fist smash into Black Adam's face. More specifically, his nose. Adam stumbles back a few steps. Conner lands another punch across Adam's face.

Third time, not so lucky. Adam grabs Conner's arm in two places. Using it as leverage, he slams an open fist into Conner's nose. Conner stumbles backward, but Adam catches the collar of his shirt. Adam pulls Conner close to his face and readies a fist.

"What are you waiting for?" Conner challenges. "Just **say** it."

Adam scowls. The blood trickling from his nose seeps over his lips and into his mouth, coating his teeth in a pale red. And it comes to me. If it looks like Captain Marvel. and if it dresses like Captain Marvel...it's probably **powered **like Captain Marvel. Birds of a feather.

Conner flicks a beckoning finger at Adam. "You know you want to."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	16. Masks

"Connor!"

Luthor's voice bellows through the chamber. He's…extremely adequate at keeping his emotions in check. Hell, he keeps everything about him in check. A finely-carved mask that he wears wherever he goes.

It's Luthor's way of control, I guess. He wears masks. Keeps himself at bay from everyone around him—if there in fact is anyone around him. The people that do associate with him, he controls. Ruthlessly, or so the legend goes.

"Step away from him," Luthor says. I keep afist locked on Black Adam, and turn to Luthor.

He's armed himself. His right hand is clenched around a small silver handgun held tightly against his waist. The corners of his mouth angle downward, and draw up towards the center. Grim determination.

I'm holding Adam in a half-hearted chokehold. It's tricky, trying to keep attention on two fronts. If I lose focus on Adam, he could Shazam me into next week. And I want to hear what Luthor has to say.

"Or what?" I ask. "You'll shoot me? Come on, Lex, you know bullets can't hurt me."

"Maybe not. But the Kryptonite bullet in the chamber might. Care to test a theory?"

For a minute, I lose concentration. Adam falls out of my grip and I shrink a bit. I'm almost offended that Luthor would actually shoot me. Or at least consider shooting me. This was all a matter of principle. I came to Luthor because I thought he could give me answers.

Now he's just aiming a gun at me.

"You wanna tell me what this is about, Lex?"

"Oh yes," he says calmly. "I intend to."

"Good. Or else the heat vision kicks in."

"Oh **please**, Connor," Luthor says in disgust. "That is a veiled threat, and we both know it. Do you remember what I told you? **Why** this Society was created?"

"To keep the League in check," I say, half-questioning.

"Partly. But also to build our own strength. Are we doing it for Dr. Light? Not entirely. He is simply a rallying cry. An example of what the **enemy** can do when left unchallenged. Yes…we are merely a response to injustice."

"Then you don't really care what happens to Light. This is just a manufactured threat?"

"Not really. Insofar as Light is a rallying cry for our cause, he's a **symbol**. Proof that the League is no better than we are."

"And you're out to prove that point."

"Yes," Luthor says plainly. "We have recruited over 200 members into this Society. And only a few have stood against us, claiming their own primacy...or that we are just as corrupt as the League."

"So what do you do with them?"

"Make an example," Luthor says with a reserved smile. "Show them that we are the new order and they…are useless. Unless they join us. Only together can we **defend** ourselves."

"And you wanted to recruit **me**?"

"Yes. You possess great power, Connor. Too great a power to waste. What I'm offering you? What awaits you in this Society? It's beyond anything you have ever dreamed. All you have to do…is **want** it."

My head lowers to the floor in concentration.

"Well," Luthor says expectantly. "Yes…or no?"

And then I see it. Them…

An explosion rocks the chamber. A flash of orange red, and white blows a hole in the middle of the main floor, flings Luthor, Bart and Black Adam outward against the nearest solid object.

I drop into a crouch, shielding myself from the blast—marginally at least. The heat from the blast washes over me, blowing me to the floor in a lazy sprawl.

I stand groggily, wiping my eyes. The chamber's loaded with dust and smoke and God knows what else. I can't make out anything. Just a few rough shapes around me. Bart, Luthor, Tim…hard to tell.

And then, as soon as it came, the smoke is gone. Whirling out of the room like some kind of tornado, dispersing into the walls and floor, the smoke leaves small trails—wisps—as it diffuses into the atmosphere.

The chamber's clear enough now for me to see them.

They're standing on the edge of the hole they blew in the floor.

Batman...and Batgirl. Weird

"Nice of you to stop by," I say.

Neither of them says anything. Batgirl walks toward Bart, helping him to his feet, while Batman approaches me. I do a quick look-around and see that Luthor's out of sorts. He manages to get to a knee, inspects his immediate surroundings as if to make sure he's still in one piece. I turn away from him, back to Batman.

"How long have you been waiting down there?"

"Long enough," he says. Not a wasted movement.

"So you were just waiting? For what?"

"The right time," Batman says. He looks around, surveying the damage like some Field Marshal at war. "We're done here."

"What do you mean 'we're done'?" I say, anger creeping into my voice. Batman stands a few inches higher than me. I lift off the floor to stare straight into his eyes. Too bad for me though, that he's wearing the same Star-lite lenses in his cowl that Robin does. "You're not gonna try to take them into custody?"

Batman looks past me, at Luthor. I turn to see ol' Baldy shuffle the gun back into his jacket and dust himself off. He straightens his tie and stares back at Batman narrowly.

"No," Batman says, coming back to me. "He's not important."

"Not important! Do you know what they're doing here? What they're trying to accomplish?"

"Yes," he says, unmoved. "And for the moment, it's **not** a concern."

Batman turns away from me. He heads for Tim, across the room.

"Dammit," I mutter, and turn away. I head for Bart, but stop short. My eyes go to the ceiling, and turn to my left. To Luthor. He's leaning against the wall. Casual. His arms are folded confidently over his chest, and a burning cigarette is screwed between his lips. A smile creeps across his face. And for a moment, something inside me snaps.

"What!"

Luthor snickers, glances at the ground and comes back to me. "You."

"What do you mean?"

"I would have thought you had more control over yourself." He pushes off from the wall and walks past me, towards the dais. Before he reaches his ottoman, he turns back to me. "I was wrong," he says plainly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I thought I could help you. Make you into something greater. Something worthy of your bloodline. But I misjudged you."

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Warm. I turn slowly to see its source: Tim.

"Come on," he says quietly. "He doesn't matter anymore."

I turn back to Luthor, staring at him for a moment. And he stares right back at me. His eyebrows are angled sharply as he catalogues me. His arms are folded over his chest, neatly pressing the black tie against his frame.

And for a moment, I wonder. What could have been? Would it really have been so hard to go along with Luthor?

Yes, or so I tell myself.

I turn away, towards the open doors. Robin's standing in the threshold, with Bart slung around his shoulder. Batman and Batgirl stand next to Tim. Even through Batman's mask I can see his impatience.

My head drops in a half-assed kind of defeat. I join up with Tim.

Behind us, the massive utility doors slide shut. Sealing us from Luthor's society.

* * *

Luthor slumped in his Ottoman, steepling his fingers, staring into space. Deep in concentration or so he would have you believe. Calculator—Noah Kuttler—stepped up the dais. Dr. Psycho and Black Adam flanked Luthor on one side. Calculator takes the left side. 

"Superboy never wanted to be a part of this, Lex," Kuttler says empathetically.

"Maybe so," Luthor said. "But it was worth it."

"Was it?" Dr. Psycho asked. "Worth getting beaten by **kids **in costumes?"

"It was more than that," Luthor replied. "This was a most effective demonstration of the Society's power. You've done well. All of you."

"What about Deathstroke?" Dr. Psycho rasped. "He sold us out! We ought to string him up by his short and curlies!"

"Psycho," Luthor said in annoyance. "That **was **Deathstroke."

Psycho's lips rounded, and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Confusion. "I...don't follow."

"You know as well as I do. Robin and the Kid Flash had one purpose in coming here: to retrieve Connor. To that end, they had to get **inside**."

"They needed a mole," Talia said slowly, as if having been shown a great revelation. "Someone who knew this place. Batman was the logical choice."

"Indeed," Luthor said. "Robin needed someone who could pass as believable to Connor and Bart. Though I'm sure even if it was the real Batman, neither of them would have noticed."

"Robin knew it was Slade?" Calculator asked.

"Yes. He shows...promise."

"He is clever," Talia said. "Like his **mentor**."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	17. Point of Origin

Batman leads us out of Luthor's bunker, our exit being a storm drain on the outskirts of Goodwin Airport. The tunnel's large enough for us all to fit in, though Batman and Tim hunch a bit. It's one of the few times in my life I'm lucky for my less-than-giant stature. By the time we reach the end of the drainage tunnel, its night.

With a single kick, Batman forces the grating separating us from the world to the ground. It splashes into the muddy river bed noisily, making a sound somewhere between a whoopee cushion and blowing raspberries. The 8-year old in me laughs.

Batman jumps down into the water. It pools around his ankles, and he doesn't seem to mind. Instead he extends an arm to me and helps me down first.

"How's that leg?" he asks.

"Uh, fine" I tremble. When was the last time I talked to Batman? Can't even remember. My eyes dart around. Oh it's uncomfortable. "It's fine…sir." Bart, you idiot. Batman's one of those rare breeds that demands respect just by looking at him. You don't necessarily have to voice your respect. A casual grin might do it. Whatever.

Oddly enough though…he doesn't seem to mind that I called him 'sir.' I don't question it.

"Good," he says. I sling an arm around his shoulder, and step aside. Tim drops to the ground. Conner's the last out of the drain. He looks at me in what I imagine to be some kind of voiceless apology. 'Sorry about you leg, Bart, but those are the breaks.' Jerk. I purse my lips, about to say something, but stop. I'll **save** my two cents.

Batman turns to Tim, whose busy wiping the mud off the ends of his cape.

"Ca you get back to San Francisco?"

"Yeah," Tim says absent-mindedly. "I'll put in a call to the Watchtower. They can find our position here and teleport us back."

"You're sure?"

"Aren't I always?" Tim says with a half-smirk. I remove myself from Batman's shoulder and find a tree stump to lean on. Batman turns to Conner, and I go to Tim. I happen to…overhear Conner talking to Batman.

"How did it go?" Batman asks.

"Fine," Conner says distantly. I glance over my shoulder quickly and see Conner and Batman standing a few yards away from us, up the ridge. Twin halogen lights peer over the edge of the ridge a few more yards ahead of Batman. Must be the Batmobile, or its headlights anyway. Or…whatever Tim called it. Part of me wonders…isn't having your headlights on just a little obvious?

And I tune out of Conner's conversation right about there. I turn back to Tim. He's got a hand cupped around one ear.

"This is Robin." A pause. "Can you do a teleport for three to San Francisco?"

I glance down at my knee. A scab's already forming over my exposed kneecap. After Black Adam snapped my leg and hauled me off to his little prison cell, I ripped off part of the suit around my knee. Partly to see just how much damage ha been done and to see if there was anything I could do. That was dumb reasoning. With exposure to the elements, infection probably set in. After all…accelerated healing doesn't mean invincibility. Man, I wish it did.

I extend my knee outward, trying to keep it as straight as I can so the bones set right. I try to work through the pain, massaging the muscles in my thigh--the vastus medialis and the vastus lateralis thank-you-very-much Gray's Anatomy. The drawback to extending the leg is that it involves almost every leg muscle. A lot of those muscles were separated from their insertions, courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Black Adam. Jerk.

I look back at Tim. He's done talking to the Watchtower. He flashes me a grin and looks past me, to Conner and Batman.

"Conner, they're ready."

Conner glances at us and says a hasty okay, then turns back to Batman. He nods his head and turns away. Batman heads up the ridge, towards the lights of the Batmobile.

Next thing I know, strange blue energy bands appear around us. I close my eyes and I feel a jolt for a second. Like the jolt you feel when the rollercoaster jumps to life and starts rolling along on its track. Right before its rockets up the track...and suddenly shoots down. I half expect to get thrown down violently.

But I don't. By the time I open my eyes, I'm back in the Tower. The big panoramic windows on the top floor overlook San Francisco Bay. The sunset bathes the Bay in warm orange and red. Further out, Alcatraz is silhouetted against the sky. I sigh relief.

"Home," I say, with a smile. "Who wants pizza?"

"Later," Tim says. "We need to get you down to Medical. Have Cyborg and Cassie take a look at your leg.

Tim hangs around just long enough to see Cassie and Vic slap a tourniquet around my knee, set me up in a swanky hospital-type bed. He comes in my room as Cass lifts my leg into a ceiling-anchored hanging support…thingy.

Cass moves to my bedside. "Lift your head," she says. I follow suit, and she fluffs my pillow.

"Wow," I say. "Are you tryin' to seduce me, Miss Sandsmark?"

"Don't get your hopes up," she says with a half-grin.

"Fair enough," I say. "So, uh, when do I get my sponge bath?"

"When you grow up," she says. She arranges my pillow back behind my head, and gives men unexpected peck on the forehead. My eyebrows pique and I stare into space. All I can manage is some inordinate sound that sounds something like 'whoa', but even then it's a stretch.

I look ahead of me to see Tim standing into the doorway—leaning against the frame, his arms folded over his chest. He's got a small grin on his face.

"Was that necessary, Cass?"

She turns to Tim. "No, but it served its purpose."

"Which is?"

"It shut him up."

So much for euphoria. Cass turns back to me, pats my bare chest and flashes a wink. "Get some rest, Bart. See you tomorrow."

She swaggers past Tim. He moves aside to make room for her watches her go, and approaches the bed.

"How you feeling?" he asks.

"A box of chocolates, yourself?"

"Considering what you've been through, that's--"

"Surprising? You're tellin' me. Considering what **I've** been through I should be ready to tear some heads."

"And yet here you are." Tim folds his arms over his chest.

"Here I am," I say proudly. "Though…"

"What is it?"

"Oh, it's Conner."

"Your leg," Tim replies, finishing my thought.

"It's more than that, Tim," I say, pryingly. "He just sat there. I don't know about you, but…"

"You're hurt," he says.

"Yeah," I say bluntly. "Wouldn't you be?"

"Bart, I've been doing this for a while now," Tim says. He turns and walks along the side of the bed slowly. "It never gets easier. The more you do it, the more chance you have of running into trouble."

"Yeah, but you weren't **there**," I say. "He just let it happen. Have you ever been totally helpless? Betrayed? Left out in the cold?"

"Many times," Tim says quietly. "And I know what you're feeling. But this is something you need to **talk** to him about. Don't let it get the best of you."

"Tell **him** that."

Tim stops at the foot of the bed.

"Get some rest, Bart. I'll have Cyborg put you on reserve until you're back to full strength."

"Yeah, ok," I say distantly.

Tim turns and leaves. He leaves the door open. My eyes drift shut for a few minutes.

They open to the harsh fluorescents overhead. I look ahead of me and Conner's standing in the doorway, his hand hovering over the light switch.

"Mind if I turn these on?" he asks callously.

"Sure," I say. "Why not." I turn my head and look out the panoramic window—it's more of a wall, really. The outer façade of the Tower is mostly glass, at least on the upper levels—the T-section. 'Frisco is alive with the lights and life of a Saturday night. I almost wanna jump out of bed and go be a part of it.

I look back to Conner. He's at the foot of the bed now.

"Listen," he says, wringing his hands like Richard Nixon. Sheesh. "I, uh, came to talk."

"Okay," I say, feigning interest. "How's your portfolio? Diversified?"

"Come on," he says, cocking his head in annoyance. "Can we be serious about this?"

"You wanna be serious?" I say, my voice rising. "Fine. Let's be serious."

"Alright," Conner says, crossing his arms.

"You just **sat** there," I say. "Sat there and let it happen."

"Bart, it wasn't my fault—""

"Wasn't it!"

"Dr. Psycho was influencing me."

"Yeah right."

"Bart, I never intended for any of this to happen."

"Yeah, Conner. This crap just fell into place. Gimme a break."

"You have to believe me. I never wanted any of this to happen."

"Then you shouldn't have gone to find Luthor. You should have stayed here, not gotten involved. I'd still have a working leg, and we'd all be a lot happier!"

"If you want me to apologize for going to Luthor—"

"I want you to apologize for not **doing** anything! Black Adam breaks my friggin' leg and you sit there. Not saying anything, just letting it happen. You could've taken them all out in a blink. What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Conner exhales, and collects himself. "I **wanted** to help. But I couldn't. Dr. Psycho was playing with my mind. He had me locked in that chair. Even if I wanted to stop Black Adam, I couldn't."

"I'm not grotesquely ignorant, Conner! Psycho may have been screwing with you, but you could have done something about it. You could have fought it! But you didn't. You just went along with whatever Luthor said, didn't you. You just rolled with it. Did you even hear that little voice inside that says 'this might be a **bad** **idea'**?"

"That's not—"

"Fair? I'll tell you what's not fair. I'm out of commission for who-knows how long while this damn thing heals! Because of you, I have to sit on the sideline while everyone else gets to contribute to society."

"Bart, all I can say is that I'm sorry."

"Yeah. You **are** sorry."

"So that's it then? What happened to forgive and forget?"

"Why **should** I?"

"It's what friends do for each other."

"Face it, Conner," I say, quieting my voice. "What you just did wasn't for anyone but **yourself**."

"You know that's not true."

"It **is**. And you **know** it."

Silence. "This is your fault," I say. "Tim and I try to save you, and we get beaten to hell and back by Slade and Zoom while you run around playing secret agent with Luthor. **That's** not fair."

Conner slumps a bit, in a visible kind of defeat. "I **am** sorry about your leg, Bart. But I had to know where I came from. What I'm **doing** here."

"And did Luthor enlighten you? Did you **find** what you were looking for?"

"You know I did."

"Doesn't **look** like it."

"Come on!" Conner protests. "You knew what I was doing. What I was getting into. You didn't have to get involved."

"I don't wanna **hear** it," I say impatiently. "Listen, Conner. I did something for you…and you threw it back in my face. For the foreseeable future, stay the hell **away** from me."

"So that's it?"

"I didn't stutter. There's the door."

Conner turns and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

_**Next: Tim returns to Gotham..  
**_


	18. Ad Astra per Aspera

"Thus you shall go to the stars."_  
_

Virgil, _The Aeneid_ (Book IX, line 641)

* * *

"There's the door," Bart says without missing a beat. My jaw slacks a bit, and I turn around to leave. So much for trying to explain myself. 

I step silently into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me. I head to the end of the hall—an open window, about my size—and go airborne.

Bart's leg is screwed up—again. Is it my fault?

Arguably.

I get altitude quickly, rocketing into the night sky. The cool air rushes against my face. It's…therapeutic. I angle my head to the side and I make a wide loop in the sky around Frisco. Both sides of the bay are alive with the light and vigor of a Saturday night. I almost want to be there. Experiencing it. Soaking it in.

I hear a mechanical crackling in my ear. It's my earpiece communicator coming on. I tap my ear lightly, activating the beacon. I kick into high gear, and the bay area fades away. Lights in the distance, from Sacramento, are already visible and getting closer.

"Yeah?" I say curtly.

"It's Cassie. Where are you?"

"Over Sacramento," I say. Beneath me the city flashes by in an instant. "On my way to Metropolis."

"You left in a hurry. I didn't get a chance to say good-bye."

"Then say it now."

A pause. Reno comes into my field of vision…and passes.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asks. Cass is good at reading people. She can tell if something is wrong within a few seconds of talking to you. But I'm not trying to hide anything, so that makes her job easier.

"No," I say. "It's in the past. I can't change anything."

"And you're sure about that?"

"Very," I say without missing a beat. "Listen, I'm coming in on Denver. The mountains might interfere with the signal. If you have something to say, make it quick."

"Stop making **excuses**," she says pointedly. "We're worried about you, Conner."

"Uh-huh."

"Please," she implores. "Talk to me. Let me help you through this."

"Sorry, Cass," I say. "I don't need help. I need **time**." I tap my ear lightly and the communicator clicks off.

I need some place where I can sort things out. Some place familiar. The lights of Metropolis shine brightly in the distance. It's beautiful. Therapeutic. My x-ray vision kicks in, and I find it in a few seconds.

1938 Sullivan Street.

* * *

After I leave Bart's room, I head straight for the monitor womb. 

Gar and Vic are entrenched in the PS2 and Cass is curled up in one of the beanbag chairs, talking into her handheld communicator. She's probably got Conner on the other end. If he needs me, he can call.

The Monitor Womb is situated at the base of the Tower. Monitors of various sizes stretch up the length of the womb for 100 feet. With the multitude of monitors, we can keep continuous feeds on situations. Bank robberies, police chases, and so forth. The central PC station is on hover lifts so it can move up and down, to see all the screens. Not unlike a Mobius Chair...

Bart once broke the chair and several monitors trying to test the speed of the hover lifts. He's not allowed in the womb unsupervised anymore.

Raven's on duty, her eyes locked onto a police chase in Star City.

"Busy night?" I say from a vantage point behind the central PC station.

"No more than usual," she says distantly. "I take it Conner found what he was looking for."

"You'd have to ask **him**."

Raven turns to me. "Care to talk about it?"

"Not really," I say, turning my attention back to the police chase. Green Arrow shows up, landing on the hood of the stolen vehicle.

"I suppose that's fair," Raven says.

"Conner can take care of himself," I say. "I need to get back to Gotham."

"Consider it done," Raven says, pressing a button on the control console. "And Robin?"

"Yeah?" I say as the blue energy bands appear around me.

"I don't know what Luthor did, maybe I don't want to."

"Alright," I say awkwardly.

"But something doesn't feel right. I can tell by the way you carry yourself. Be careful."

I smile and give her a mock salute. I close my eyes, and feel the sudden jolt of the teleporter dissembling my molecules and relocating them in Gotham City.

I open my eyes…and I'm in the cave. I look around me, taking a quick inventory of what sparse furnishings Bruce has down here. Costumes of fallen partners. A giant penny. An equally giant playing card with a ghastly Joker litho staring back at me.

So many memories.

Ahead of me is the Batcomputer. I guess we have Dick to thank for the application of the prefix 'bat' to everything down here: Batcomputer, Batmobile, Batplane, Bat…shark repellant. I guess it helped him put some light among the darkness. Valiant. Useful too.

The main screen on the computer glows a dim green, showing a video feed of a man sitting in his padded cell, bound in a straitjacket and huddled in the cornerlike some frightened animal. Bruce stares thoughtfully at the screen.

I approach the computer, and stand next to Bruce. Oddly enough, Bruce isn't in the suit. He actually looks like…Bruce Wayne. His jet black hair starts at a prominent widow's peak and pulls back tightly over his skull—from years of wearing the cowl, training his hair to that behavior. Dark trousers and a black turtleneck with the sleeves pushed up around his elbows absorbs the light from teh screen. This is…interesting. Even when he's not in the suit, he still prefers dark colors.

"How was San Francisco?"

"Fine," I say, half expecting him to bring up the Luthor incident earlier. I lay a hand on the chair back. If he noticed it, he didn't say anything. He hardly says anything anymore. He just sits here avoiding the sun like some Albino, watching his video feeds like some paranoid FBI Agent. It can't be healthy.

I slide my thumbs under the corners of my mask, and pull it off. Finally, I'm looking at things with my own eyes, not star-lite lenses.

"What's up?" I ask. "Nigma break out again?"

"Does it look like it?" Rhetorical questions. I hate 'em.

"Then…what are you doing?"

"Keeping my enemies closer," he says distantly. "How's Bart's leg?"

"He's fine," I say. It was bound to come up anyway. Part of thinks recriminates myself for thinking Bruce wouldn't find out about our little escapades underneath Goodwin Airport. Hell, if it happens within the Western Hemisphere, Bruce is on to it. Paging George Orwell…

"Good," Bruce says. "Are you staying?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's a room prepared for you upstairs if you want to stay. You're welcome to, of course."

"Aren't I always?" I ask with a smirk. I reach under the neckline of the cape and undo the fasteners. The cape falls off the back of my shoulders. I catch it, and sling it over my shoulder.

Bruce doesn't answer my question. He presses a button on the console and the image of Nigma changes to a picture—more like blueprints, technical readouts—of a gray framework orb housing a small red ball. Almost like an…eye.

Bruce sips from a tea cup nearby, sets the cup back on a silver tray next to him, and stares at the screen.

"So that's it?" I ask lightly.

"Yes."

"And you're sure about this? You're not…worried about what they might do."

"Whatever they try to do won't work, Tim," he says. I allow myself a smile. Bruce is as self-assured as ever. It's…impressive. "Anything they try can only make me **stronger**."

"What, uh…whatever happened to forgive and forget?" I ask disjointedly.

"This isn't that simple," Bruce says, standing and facing me. "No matter what happens. What I do or what they do...they'll make me right. Everything I've ever done will be **justified**."

"Yeah," I say, looking away from him for a moment as I ponder. Thing is…I **know** Bruce. I know him very well. And I can understand where he's coming from. I'm only going on what he's told me—it was before I even started following Batman's pursuits—but…the League tampered with his **mind**. His one inviolate asset. And for what? So they wouldn't have to explain themselves?

This business with the League…this is Bruce Wayne at eight years old all over again. Reduced to helplessness—seeing his world fall apart around him. This is Bruce Wayne trying to make up for something, trying to compensate for an inconsistency—an injustice—in his life...in order to make himself better. It's valiant, if tragic.

I tell myself I understand what he's up against. What he's trying to do. And I'll stand there with him. No matter what. It's the least I can do.

Bruce reaches across the keyboard, grabs a manila folder, and hands it to me.

"Here," he says. "This is for you."

"What is it?"

"Just open it," he replies. His chair rotates around to see me. He slouches in the seat, folds one arm over his chest and raises a pensive finger to his mouth, watching me open the folder.

I pull back the small metal tabs holding the envelope lip in place, and pull out a small stack of papers. A formal cover page adorns the papers, the seal of the city of Gotham embossed on the upper corner. Department of Child Services.

My eyes narrow dubiously, and I flip through the rest of the papers. Forms to be filled out, questionnaires. It's all there.

This is a petition for adoption. My eyes go back to Bruce.

"I…I don't understand," I say quietly.

"You're sixteen years old," Bruce says. I can sense the awkwardness in his voice. He can scare the everlasting piss out of a serial rapist, but he doesn't do hear-to-heart very well Part of me wonders if Alfred put him up to this. "You need a place to hang your hat. I realize it's not much."

"No," I say, astounded. "It's…more than enough."

"I mean," Bruce says awkwardly. "You said it yourself."

"What?"

"Batman needs a Robin."

"You don't have to do this, Bruce," I say, playing the humble angle.

"Says who?"

* * *

_**The End **_


End file.
